BillCURRIN,likeMostof the OtherlndeP.endentTobacco Experts,SmokesLuckies
Mr. Smoker: You say most of these tobacco experts smoke Luckies?
Mr. Lucky Strike: Yes, 2 to 1 over all other brands combined. Sworn records prove it.
Mr. Smoker: How many of these experts work for you?
Mr. L. S.: Not one! They' re all independent tobacco men. Auctioneers, buyers, warehousemen.
Mr. Smoker: Are these men the best judges of tobacco?
Mr. L. S.: You bet they are! Just for example , there's Bill Currin He's been an auctioneer for 16 years, and has sold millions of pounds of tobacco.
Mr. Smoker: And Currin smokes Luckies?
Mr. L. S.: Yes-and bas for 15 years Not only for their fine tobacco, but because of the "Toasting" process.
Mr. Smoker: What does that do?
Mr. L. S.: It takes out certain harsh irritants found in all tobacco-makes Luckies a light smoke, easy on the throat.
Mr. Smoker: That sounds good to me. I'll try them.
EASYONYOURTHROAT-BECAUSE"IT'STOASTED"
l'M TELLING YOU PRINCE ALBERT PUTSNEW JOY IN ANY PIPE. IT CAKESTHE PIPE RIGHT, SMOKES
P.A. MONEY-BACKOFFER. Smoke 20 fragrant pipefuls of Prince Albert. If you don't find it the mellowest, tastiest pipe tobacco you ever smoked, return the pocket tin with the rest of the tobacco in it to us at any time within a month from this date, and we will refund full purchase price, plus postage. (Signed)
R. J. Reynolds Tobacco Company, Winston-Salem, N.C.
TRY IT!
THE MESSENGERannounces an award of $10.00 for the best piece of non-fiction on any current or recently current question, or any phase of life in the United States toda y.
CONTEST RULES
Length - 2,000 to 4,500 words.
Submission-To the editors of THE MESSENGER.
Manuscript are to be unsigned , with envelope attached, writer's name sealed inside, and subject of article on outside.
Deadline-November 23, 1938.
Eligibility-Any student of the University of Richmond, except members of THE MESSENGERstaff.
pipefuls of fragrant tobacco in every 2-oz. tin of Prince Albert
GEORGE SCHEER, Editor-in-Chief ; PAUL SAUNIER, JR., Richmond College Editor;
LENORE DINNEEN, Westhampton College Editor; G. BEN McCLURE, JR., CARL WoosT,
N. T. BABCOCK, PHYLLIS ANNE COGHILL, JEAN NEASMITH, MABEL LEIGH ROOKE, HELEN HILL, Assistant Editors; JOHNS. HARRIS, Business Manager ; T. STANFORD TUT-
>H WILER, Assistant Business Manager. 25c per issue; $1.00 per
I ask for little things,
You give me gold.
I ask for moonlight low
On slanting roofs
Like silvery snow.
I ask for melodies;
But disregard the harmony of spring,
And you forget the rhythm of the rain,
Or Bight of birds, or winds-
I ask you always
For such simple things.
11 T he illumination , by which I write, is the flash es of lightning."
ILLUSTRATION BY F. LAFOON
"I,PETERELLYSON
By PHILIP COOKE
Before attempting to cross again that border into eternity I, Peter Ellyson, Gentleman, not understanding the cause of my present being, nor comprehending the horror that has lately befallen me, do hereby record my story, which at last draws to an end on this stormy and frightful night.
Of my life I have not much to divulge, except that it was m~ch like that of any other educated man of my time. At sixteen, I entered the College of William and Mary to study law, graduating four years later with honors. The following four years I spent practicing at the county seat near my home. I had barely turned twenty-four when I moved to Richmond to be near the center of politics, in which I had become much interested and abo to take a partnership, which a friend of my
[5}
father had offered me in a law firm. In the church, built over the fire-ravaged ruins of The Theatre, I took the marital vows. I was then one of the most prominent lawyers in Richmond - twenty-nine years old. A year later I ran for the esteemed office of Governor, and for the next four years was very much a public figure. I refused to run a second term in favor of continuing my law practice and being wholly content with my simple life. My wife and children were well, my practice flourishing. I lived in a well built house on Franklin Street and had many friends; I attended the Episcopal church regularly, the latter, one of the reasons I do not comprehend what has happened, and one of the reasons I curse with my dying breath that unholy day. It was a custom of mine to have my wife
iix a picnic lunch and place it in my knapsack, whenever I felt in the mood to get away by myself. I would then walk some distance beyond the limits of Richmond to a clearing in the forest where flowed a clear, cold spring of fresh water. Once there I would bask in the sun, bathe in the cold water of the spring, eat my lunch-do as was my fancy. Towards nightfall I would sling the then empty knapsack over my shoulder and return home. I had been doing this for some years; consequently, on that day when I set out to my favorite clearing, I had no inkling of what was to come. Early that morning I had attended to the immediate business on hand, kissed my v;rif e and children good-by, and had set off, whistling, up Franklin Street with my knapsack weighing lightly on my back. In an hour or two, I had arrived at the clearing, walking leisurely on the way, and proceeding to do what I had done many times before: I took my plunge into the cold spring water; I ate the excellent lunch my wife had prepared for me; I spent the rest of the afternoon reading from two volumes, which I brought along with my lunch in my knapsack. If I remember rightly, for I am in no certain position to do so now, one of the volumes was entitled Waverley or) )Tis Sixty Years Since) written by one Walter Scott. The second volume, if my mind does not deceive me more, was a slim book of verse by Alfred and Charles Tennyson, the title of which escapes me. Being a very rapid reader, I had · finished the book of verses, some of which were good, and was well into Scott's novel, when I noticed that the light was waning. It was time for me to return home. I placed the two books in my knapsack, slung it, now empty of viands, over my shoulder and started home the way I had come.
Half the distance to my home had not been covered before I was forced to seek shelter beneath a tree beside the road, for a sudden
thundershower had quickly come up and was breaking over my head. The sky darkened as peal upon peal of thunder shook the very earth on which I was standing. Lightning flashed vividly, as if it were a conductor's baton leading that wild symphony of wind, rain, and thunder. The ~torm broke in all its fury. I was beginning to feel secure, if a little wet, standing beneath that tree, when I felt some great force hit me from all sides at once. Light, of a brightness I had never seen before, flashed before my eyes. My nostrils were filled with peculiar odors of burnt wood, ozone, and things that were new to me; my eardrums nearly burst under the pressure of the noise that filled them. I was physically picked up and thrown onto the muddy road some hundred feet from the tree. I had been struck by lightning.
To say that I was stunned would be stating a fact that contains more truth than poetry. I lay in the mud, rain beating in my face, soaking me to the skin. The passing of time came to mean nothing to my surprised senses. I noticed dimly that the rain had stopped, that the sun, well in the west before the storm broke, was hanging hesitantly on the horizon, as if anxiously awaiting for someone to drop it into the night. In vain I tried to move; I could not. My eyes, which had remained open from the time I became aware of what had happened, refused to close. There was a complete rigor mortis in the eyelid and the eyeball. For some reason, as I found by experimenting, it had spread to all parts of my body. Incapable of any movement whatsoever, I lay in the road and thought mad thoughts concerning Miphistopheles, and purgatory, and damning God. Suddenly, in the distance, I heard the faint hoofbeats of a horse, coming along the road. I tried to shout, but no sound escaped from between my immovable lips. The horse came closer and closer, cantering easily. Then with
an exclamation from the rider, the horse pulled up short. I heard the straining squeak of saddle leather, as the rider dismounted, the faint splashing noise of his boots, as he strode through the mud to my side. He said nothing. He stood looking at me for some time. Then speaking my name, as if he had just recognized me, he picked me up, slung me over the back of the frightened horse, mounted and galloped into town, carrying me home in that manner, as if I were a sack of meal.
The disturbance among my immediate household, caused by my arrival home in that manner, was something that no master of the pen could ever describe. On seeing me, my wife burst into a flood of hysterical tears, to which the children, taking their cue from her, added their treble lamentations. The servants dashed helter-skelter about the house, wailing and talking in whispers, all at the same time. The chorus of sounds that greeted my ears, as I was being carried upstairs to my bedroom, was ghastly. The horseman, who had brought me home, and whom I recognized, as he laid me on my bed and bent over me, as one of my best friends, tried, at first without avail, to bring about some order, or semblance of order. It was he who had the presence of mind to send a servant after our doctor; it was he who somehow calmed down my wife and children; it was he who had me partially undressed by the time the doctor arrived. To that friend I am eternal! y thankful.
On seeing the doctor, my wife burst forth in another crescendo of hysterics, playing upon her ability to weep with all the mastery of a great musician. For the space of time it took the doctor to place his tube over my heart and place his ear to the other end, for the space of time it took him to feel my pulse, she remained quiet. But, on hearing tqe first five words he had uttered since entering the house, she fell to weeping again. Those words,
spoken simply and quietly, were, "Madam, your husband is dead."
The next two days were a horrible nightmare to me. Try as I would, I could not tell those about me that I was alive. I tried, failing, silently observed, and heard their preparations for burying me alive! In my will I had written that I wished to be buried in my favorite clothes. Clad in them, I lay in state in the parlor of my home, staring at the wavering light thrown on the ceiling by the flickering candles, and defying all efforts of those who wished to close my eyes. I could see friends, enemies, relatives, those of whom I had happened to make acquaintances, all pass within the restricted area of my sight. There were people for whom I had won cases, people I had defeated, my brothers, long faced and solemn, coming to pay their last respectsmy sister, weeping as if her heart would break. Oh, God! Would that I could have risen then, taken her in my arms and kissed away her tears! But I could not.
Many times the sorrow lined face of my wife passed before my vision; many times I tried, but could not move. On the second day of my lying in state, they put me in my coffin. Shortly after, the minister came and proceeded to read the service for the dead; then the lid was closed. I could still see the ceiling, for there was a small window above my eyes; I had so willed it. The coffin began to rock, as it was carried out of the house. Through my window I caught a glimpse of blue sun-lit sky, before the top of the hearse blotted out my view. The sound of the wheels came to my ears. I was rocked gently, as the hearse and procession moved slowly toward Hollywood Cemetery. The rocking and noise ceased. We had arrived.
Overhead I could see the arched stone roof of the vault. I was to be pushed into a hole and cemented from all earthly touch! My ears be[7]
gan to ring. Faintly I could hear my wife and sister weeping. I became aware of the sonorous voice of the minister reading, "Unto Almighty God we commend the soul of our brother departed, and we commit his body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection unto eternal life. . . . " I was being lifted; grating, grinding into my ears, was the sound of the coffin, as it was pushed into the crypt, the sound of trowel on stone, as the entrance at my feet was being sealed with niy namestone. I was being buried alive! With a scream, which even now rings in my mind, I lapsed into unconsciousness!
How long I remained in that state, I had no way of knowing. I came slowly to my senses, so slowly that at first I was not aware of the fact. With a start, I realized that I had raised my hand and had placed it on my forehead. I had moved! Cautiously I experimented to make sure that my hand was not the only part of my body that had regained its faculty of movement. When I had made sure that I could again command the movement of all of my extremities, I began to feel about my hellish prison for some means of escape. I found that, at the foot of my coffin, I had a space in which I might draw my legs up a bit and kick down. Thereby, I hoped to kick the end of my coffin out. After several tries, the end gave away with the soft sound of crumbling and rotted wood. I slid myself further down, placed my feet against the stone that blocked my only way into the world of the living. I pushed mightily. I felt a cool gust of air come up my legs, past my waist, to my face. With a crash, the stone fell to the floor of the crypt. I slid out of that dreadful prison and stood up. I was free!
I stood on the cold stone floor of my tomb. Beyond the iron gate at the entrance, there was darkness, vividly lit time and time again by
flashes of lightning. Wind howled with the eerie song of tortured souls; thunder echoed and reechoed in the coldness of the crypt. I glanced at the floor. A flash of lightning-I saw, smashed to pieces, the stone that once blocked my entrance into the world. I could make out my name carved in those bits. I laughed until the echoes of that laughter mingled with the roar of thunder to die into silence. I opened the iron gate and stepped into the storm. I was again on my way home.
I was lost-confused-by twists and turns that I had never dreamed existed in the city of Richmond. Soaked, half hysterical at the frustration of my attempts to return to my domicile, I at last found myself before my house. I ran up the front steps, entered the front door, and went directly to my room. Dry clothes before I made my presence known, I thought, as I approached the dresser. I stopped. Something-something was wrong, out of place. I could feel it, but knew not the source of that feeling. In the whiteness of a lightning flash that threw my room in bold relief, I saw on my bed the form of a body! .Who was there in my bed? What could this mean? I approached silently, grasped the covers, and tore them suddenly off the figure. A man, bewildered by the suddenness of my action, befuddled by sleep, looked once at me and, with a sobbing, choking scream, jumped out of the bed and ran out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
Several minutes passed as I stood motionless. Again and again the lightning flashed. I knew that this was my room. I recognized pieces of furniture, but something-somehow, things had changed. Between peals of thunder, I heard the door open cautiously. The man, whoever he was, was coming back. I turned to face him. Light, the brilliance of which I had never seen, streamed in an ever widening beam through the crack. Slowly, ever so slow[8]
ly, he opened the door, until at last he was framed in that doorway. His shadow stopping almost at my feet. In his hand was a flat piece of metal, which, before I could fathom for what purpose it was to be used, had belched flame and noise. It was a gun! The man's eyes, ever widening in terror, glared at my very soul, as he shot not once, but twice-thrice-four times! Terrified, he threw the gun at my head, turned on his heel, and ran down the steps. I heard the front door slam after him, as he plunged into the stormy night.
Cautiously I passed my hands over my chest; I found four round holes in the cloth. The man had not missed, and yet I did not feel any effect of having been hit! I was beginning to feel faint. I staggered over to my dresser, where I stood leaning on the top. I rested my head on my arms and tried to think things out. I did not know what to think. I had been buried for one night and a day at the most; yet when I had escaped from my coffin, things seemed to have changed. I could not find my way home. There was the strange man, the brilliant light, the mysterious gun that shot more than once without having to be reloaded, the strangeness of my room. What had happened? What had my entombment done to my mind? Was I dreaming some horrible nightmare? I raised my head and looked into the mirror that hung over the dresser. I could see nothing reflected because of the faintness of the light in the room. The lightning flashed-with a startled
cry I jumped back. Instead of my face, I had seen in the mirror a white and grinning skull! Frantically I tore off the gloves in which my hands were encased. Instead of flesh, I saw bone! I was a living skeleton! The storm outside seemed to grow in fury, as if mocking the awful discovery I had made. Half-crazed, I looked about the room seeking some explanation of what I had gone through. I glimpsed, on the top of what was once my writing desk, a calendar; in subsequent flashes of the devil's lightning I made out the date of the year-one - nine - three - eight -. Good God in heaven, I had been in my grave one hundred years!
To you, sir, who I know did not understand the facts, I address this narrative. I sit here at the writing desk with some diabolical pen, which writes forever without need of an ink pot, in my boney hand. The illumination, by which I write, is the flashes of lightning; the music by which I try to arrange my thoughts, the crash of thunder, the beating of the rain, and the howl of the wind. Before me is the strange bit of mechanism, the likes I have never handled, undoubtedly a gun. As I draw my story to a close, I pick up this gun, not knowing whether it still has the power of destruction or not. I place it to what was once a head of flesh and blood. As the last scratch of my pen has forever been drowned in the roll of thunder-I, Peter Ellyson, with a prayer in my mind, will pull the trigger.
By CARL WOOST
It is not my purpose through this dissertation to encourage the pursuance of any one of the courses of study ordinarily presented in the standard Richmond College curriculum, but rather to expound the merits of one subject which is not generally and authoritatively recognized by the faculty and administration, but which, nevertheless, holds a distinctly important place in the lives of the greatest majority of college men. The subject to which I refer has the distinction of surpassing Philosophy and Psychology in the breadth of material covered, although definitely overlapping these and practically all other courses. Before delving further into this subject, it might be well to formally introduce it. To those who realize its extreme importance in college education, it is known as "Brewology." Be it understood here and now that it is not the subject matter covered, but the atmosphere of the classroom that constitutes the important factor of the course.
Brewology is definitely and irreparably empirical in that it must be pursued in the laboratory and definitely cannot be gotten from the customary means of text books. Imagine, if you will, the laboratory. It consists of a spacious room furnished with individual experiment tables, customarily called by the unscientific, booths There is, of course, an instructor
whose chief duty is to fill the beakers with the liquid commonly used in the experiment and keep them filled during the course of the class meeting. It is in these impressive surroundings that the class is held. It is in these impressive surroundings that all the problems of the day are presented, and what is more, solved. Views on politics, history, religion, yes, and even sex, are argued lengthily and thoroughly.
"Is Chamberlain a sissy? Yes, but who cares? Who wants to fight anyway? It's much more pleasant sitting here and pursuing our studies . Besides Herr Hitler is majoring in Brewology also, which makes him sort of a brother or something."
"A blind date at a neighboring college turned out to be a peach, and you don't know whether to write to her or not? Listen, brother of mine, imagine this lovely lady sitting silently and mournfully by the window in her room, watching morosely the leaden skies and the trees stripped of their foliage, impatiently or patiently waiting for a letter or another visit from her Prince Charming. Imagine the grief which fills her heart when the postman comes and goes with no lover's note to fill the vacancy in her bosom. My boy, let's write that letter now."
"Henry, fill the beakers!"
"You see where Mr. Roosevelt is spending
some more pocket change on another dam. Well who cares? We'll have plenty of water to drink anyway. Ugh! Who's going to pay for it? Why we will, but by that time we will have graduated and fallen into good jobs as presidents of something or other and will be millionaires, so why worry about it? Anyway, we can always move to South America."
"Say, I hear those Amazons down there aren't so bad; a little on the cavewoman side, but-say what happens when a caveman and a cavewoman get together? A cave-in, I suppose."
This is greeted by an uproarious burst of laughter, which shows to some extent the direction in which the students are moving.
"HENRY, have you deserted us? Henry, old pal, why don't you stop swaying like that; you make me dizzy. Fill up these beakers."
This will undoubtedly give the casual reader an idea of the scope of our class, and of the possibilities of even greater expansion, even into the realms of the fourth dimension . By the time the beakers have been filled for
the fifth time, the tremendous mental strain of solving the world's problems in one evening has caused the room to become distinctly unstable and the tongue to become slightly thickened, although not enough to impair the rapidly increasing desire to talk. As a result of the absolute informality of this class, the smoke from your cigarette clouds your already cloudy eyes, and the world is seen as a beautiful place in which to live after all. It is at this stage that words flow easily and the problems of the day cease to weigh heavily on the souls of the students, but seem as nothing.
It would appear that this might continue forever, but like all classes, it ends, not with the bell, however, but with the turning out of the lights and the polite enquiry of the proprietor (I mean professor) as to our plans. At this, the class rises unsteadily and begins its tortuous way to the door and home.
In all frankness, I say that while such strenuous mental activity is extremely beneficial to the wellbeing of the student, it of times leaves him somewhat hazy the next morning as to the merits of the study of Brewology.
i i i
Summer Night
Although the garish sensuousness of magnolia on the summer night was conducive to primitive action rather than thought, I could not but pause for a silent smile at the incongruity of Flora's calm acceptance of the outrage her presence was committing against the sober dignity of a black family sedan. The subdued diffusion of moonlight caught highlights on her moist lips-lips that were always relaxed in half petulant willingness When in a parked car, she spoke but rarely and then her voice was a rich throaty vibrance of unchecked lazy passion. The tones were those of a torch singer-a deep husky drawl plus the curious twists of phrases and consonant care-
lessness that mark cotton-mill people. The fine blonde silk of her hair tickled my cheek in air-borne weightlessness. She yawned briefly and pushed her toes hard against the floorboard. For a second her legs grew taut in tapering symmetry, and the skirt slipped an unchecked inch or two above her knees. Inhaling deeply Flora glanced down in naive pride to see the swelling firmness of breasts half covered in a satin blouse.
Passion satiated ends in a silence of quieter breathing. Without warning she asked, "Did'j a see Clark Gable in 'Test Pilot' ? He treated Myrna like hell 'til almost the end, but he's a sweet boy." [11]
TIT FOR TAT
By N. T. BABCOCK
As Myrna moved determinedly across the room, her housecoat made a delightful feminine swish. With a pillow under one arm, a box under her other arm, and an out-of-date song under her breath, she stopped before the fireplace. Dropping the pillow on the floor, she sat upon it. In the firelight, she looked extremely young-but it had been five years since Myrna had finished college.
Still humming, she opened the box on her lap. It was filled with packets of letters, all tied with the traditional blue ribbon. As she began to untie the ribbon on the first letters, she looked for a long time at the writing. "Miss Myrna Wilson, Lawson College, Minnesota." Such fun she and Jeff had had at Lawson. Suddenly Myrna stopped and looked up, her brow wrinkled quizzically. What was that song? It had been running through her head all morning. She hummed a few bars experimentally. Why, of course! That had been "their" song, hers and Jeff's, when they had been at college. Smiling wistfully at the letters, she sighed. Each letter was a quiet reminder of those days, when she and Jeff Conklin had been so definitely in love. She had met Jeff her Junior year, when he had been in law school. After he had finished, he had gone home to become very successful in a hometown way. That was the year he had begun writing her every day. After her own graduation, Myrna had returned home, too, to a position as a teacher in the same little school she had attended as a child. Jeff wrote then, too, and visited her often. They still dreamed of the same things they had planned while at college. But one day Jeff announced that he
had been promoted, and he was going to the New York office. Myrna thought now of the dismay she had then felt. "But New York, Jeff! It's so far away!"
That had been over four years ago. Jeff's daily letters had become weekly after a month or so; then they came even less of ten, until, finally, they had stopped coming altogether. Myrna had sent him his fraternity pin, and the last she had heard from him was a short note, tersely thanking her for the pin.
As she sat, staring into the blaze of the fire, smiles and frowns alternately rippled her face. Then she began ripping the letters into small pieces and throwing them on the fire. A few, she read. As she read these, the endearments of a young love brought a hue to her face which was accented by the light from the blazing logs. What had happened to her and Jeff? It had just suddenly stopped. That was all. Miles had been between them, and Myrna had started going out with other young men. That was how she had met Billy. It was Billy, strangely enough, who had taken Jeff's place in the law office. Not long after that, people were calling Myrna "Billy's girl." And the queer part of it was that Myrna didn't mind, not even a little bit.
As she thought back on those years, Myrna wondered what had become of Jeff. She heard every now and then that he was still in New York, but that was all. Did he think of her at all, or had he, too, found someone else to love as she had? Billy was a lot like Jeff.
Myrna sat there for several minutes, remembering. The doorbell startled her with its acuteness.
When she opened the door, she was surprised to find that it was a special delivery letter for her. Who could be writing her a special? She held it in her hands a few moments just looking at it. Her curiosity finally demanded that she open it, but she was trying
[ 12]
to recall what made that handwriting so familiar.
Suddenly, she remembered, and she tore open the enevelope. ". . . thought perhaps you would be interested to know that Helen and I were married this morning . . . " Jeff
married! Myrna smiled. She went over to the desk, picked up an envelope. It was addressed to Mr. Jeff Conklin. She opened it, drew out a white card and read, "Mr. and Mrs Charles H. Lawson announce the engagement of their daughter, Myrna Louise . . . "
1oHimWltoWaits
By PAUL SAUNIER, JR.
T w o men sat at a small, dingy table, their faces , drawn , cold . The soiled checkered tablecloth was littered with dishes of halfeaten food and dirty glasses sprinkled with cigarette stubs and ashes. The heavy swishes of rubber tires on :flooded cobblestones were the only sounds heard above the musketry of the driving rain on the outside awning.
No other patrons had remained. The only other person in the room was a morose waiter leaning against a far wall, towel in hand.
Taller, darker, the man nearest the door dropped his cigarette stub into one of the translucent glasses " My last one "
Heavier , blonder, the other only looked more sullen "I haven't got any."
Silence grew oppressive again, and they slumped back. The skidding wheels of a careening cab outside :flung a sheet of water against the window, leaving little dirty droplets coursing down the pane. In the half-light they shone dully.
The darker man moved nervously. Breathing became audible in the momentary stillness that a block-away red light offered. Then he slowly leaned forward and stretched his hand toward the table. Sudden light came into the eyes of the blond, whose lips parted eagerly,
though he strained to look at ease. Cat-like, his eyes followed every move of his companion. The dark man ' s set face did not change as he fingered the tablecloth, ·only to settle back again. The blond relaxed with a sudden, heavy grunt.
The waiter shifted to his other foot, then turned to look dourly at the dripping pane, paying no attention to hurrying stragglers outside. He sighed heavily, slipped the towel onto his other arm, and leaned back to wait out another tense period of silence.
The blond suddenly broke the interval with nine clipped words, said with a foreboding evenness . "You'd better get to your appointment. It's almost four."
The lines of set determination in the thin face of the dark man wavered uncertainly, but suddenly returned as by a burst of will-power within his very soul. Then he shuddered and winced perceptibly. The lines softened, then broke. He looked up at his companion, a trace of sardonic smile around the thin lips. And, as the blond man leaned forward with elated eyes, the darker one mumbled to himself. "That damned appointment! I'll get him next time, though."
Slowly, resignedly, he reached for the check. [ 13}
By OTTO WHITTAKER
A rim of the sun still showed above the crest of the hills, but it was almost dark in the house. In the front room, the light from a fire in a tin stove shot warm, impatient darts of orange onto the walls and into the shadows and showed an old man lying on a bed in the corner. His hair was shaggy and dirty, and one skinny foot had eluded the filth of the quilts that covered the rest of him, giving him the appearance of a corpse over whom dirt has been heaped so hastily as to leave part of it unburied. His eyes were sunken; they reflected the lights, but did not make them sparkle, and they seemed loose in their sockets as though prepared to let life seep out around them like the light leaking out through the cracks in the stove.
Besides the bed and the stove and the old man, there was little else in the room. Sitting on a scarred mantelpiece, into whose longsince blocked-up fireplace disappeared the chimney-piping of the stove, an old clock gloomily ticked away the time. Hanging on the wall behind the clock was a smoked picture of some fruit. A spiralling strip of fly-paper, dotted with its dead cargo, hung from the ceiling, a remnant of summer. There were several saggy, cane-bottomed chairs.
In the doorway to the room stood a girl with the curved hips and full bosom of twenty. Her hair fell like a rich, black curtain about her shoulders. A wisp of it, sticking damply to her cheek, and her inflamed eyes belied her as one who has wept. She twisted the hem of a soiled apron with slim, nervous fingers.
The old man turned in his bed and groaned.
The girl flew to his side, like a mother to a baby in pain. She fell on her knees and leaned her head and bosom onto the bed, helplessly. "Papa," she whimpered.
The old man looked at her. He looked at her distantly, as he would at an object strange, but not important. "Johnny come yet?" he gasped.
The girl shook her head, and the dim flush of light that had come across the old man's face disappeared.
"Can't last much longer," he said. "Come Johnny."
He closed his eyes, so that he was a corpse again, and the girl buried her head in her arms and the bed-covers. Her shoulders heaved for a long time. When she had stopped crying, she got up and went into the kitchen.
In the kitchen, the girl let her mind slip back over the weeks that had been filled with nights just such as this. The days, grey, gloomy, devoid of cheer though they were, were not so frightening as the nights, for in the day she had work to do, and the light itself warmed her father, and, consequently, her. But the nights-one after the other, all spent in a hovel where no one cared about either of them, a hovel so dismal that surely death had visited there before, and would again-were like great, slow-moving fogs of distress that came to envelop her and torture her with their dark, creeping shadows, so that she had come to hate them as she would a livmg enemy.
She had written her brother when first she knew the old man was dying. "Papa," she had written, "is dying. He wants you to come back
before he goes." And when that letter had failed to bring her brother, she had written again and again. Yet, he still had not come. Oh Johnny 1 she thought, Come back. An old 1nan who is dying wants to see his son.
The girl put out the lamp and went through the dark hallway into the room where her father lay. It was quite dark now, so the little flickers of light were plainer. She lifted the stove lid and placed a damp quarter-log inside, and with quick stabs of her hand, turned the wood to its best advantage on the fire. Then she stooped, and wrapping her apron about the handle of the ashes-pan, lifted it from the stove and went outside to empty the glowing pieces of charcoal.
She had emptied the drawer, and was standing there, holding it out from her body while she stomped the ashes-dust off her shoes, when she heard him She heard him come up the road and heard him fumble with the fencepalings until he found the gate.
The dog barked menacingly. "Hush, Dick," she said. "Get under the porch."
She had not yet seen him, but she knew who it was. She was afraid to turn, not so much in fear that it might not be he, as that it might be, for she knew the old man would die when he had seen his son .
"Hello, Sis," he said. She could not see him well in the dark. He had added weight since she had seen him last, so much weight as to make him seem short and stubby instead of lean the way he had gone away. His voice, too, was different from
" Ah , Lo rd ," he g asped " L ordy. "
ILLUSTRATION BY F. LAFOON
her recollection of it. It was hard. There was no softness in it.
"I woulda come sooner," he said, "only I couldn't get away."
She led him inside, holding the door open for him. As he passed her, she could smell the wine on his breath, and she saw a large diamond in a ring on his finger.
She shut the door and took him into the room where her father lay on his bed. Her brother came slowly. "Papa," she said, "he's come. Johnny's come."
At first the old man remained still. A brief fear that he was dead stabbed at the girl's heart. Then he moved. He turned his great, matted head and looked at his son. He looked for a long while. Then he stretched out a long, dead limb of an arm. "Johnny," he said. "Johnny, my boy. I been waitin' for you."
"Yeah," said the man, "I know. I woulda come sooner but-"
The girl jerked. Oh no! Not that way. Let me-
"He-he said he woulda come sooner, Papa,
only he didn't get none of my letters till the last one. He only got one of them."
Her brother turned and looked at her. Even in the dim light, she could see the change. She could see the paste in his face and the red, weak water in his eyes.
"Yeah," he said, never turning his eyes from her, "I only got one letter."
"All right now, Johnny." The old man's fingers tightened and loosened about the hairy, pudgy hand of his son. "You're back now."
"Yeah, I'm back now." He laughed forcedly.
"Tell the girl to git you a bite to eat and some coffee."
"I ain't much hungry," the old man's son said. "Just a cuppa coffee, Sis."
The girl got up. "It won't be no trouble," she said. I got some cold beef and-"
"I ain't hungry," the man said. "I had a bite on the train. You-you ain't got a drop of somethin' strong, have you?"
The girl looked at her father.
The old man smiled feebly. "Got some wine your mother made," he said. "Girl, git him that."
The girl's brother leaned back in his chair, making a creaking noise. "That'd be fine," he said. "I got cold comin' up the road."
"Is it turnin' cold outside, Johnny?" the old man asked.
"Yeah, it won't be long to winter now."
The girl set a jar of red wine and a glass on the chair she had been sitting in. Then she went to the stove and lifted its lid again. She stood back, out of the way of the first cloud of smoke that rushed past to the ceiling, and then she stirred the fire and opened the draft. The flames made a humming, cracking noise as the night-wind outside sucked at the chimney. The girl pulled another chai~ to the bedside and sat down.
"How is it, Johnny?" the old man asked, half-eagerly.
"Good," Johnny answered him. He ·wiped his plump mouth. ''Plenty good.'' He giggled. "Bet it's got a kick!"
The old man snorted delightedly. "Oughta have! It's about twelve years old, I reckon."
"You want a little one?"
"Lord, no. Not me. I'm too old."
"Maybe somethin' like this would make you feel better."
"Maybe," the old man cackled excitedly. He grinned, like a scheming child. "Maybe it would now."
"Wouldn't hurt to try. Here, you finish this, and I'll git a new one."
"All right-here, girl, sit me up. Turn me around a mite so I can see Johnny better."
"Papa, you oughtn't. Don't you drink that, arid don't you set up."
"Come on, now-I guess I can take a drop with my own son, can't I?"
The girl caught him under his arms and hoisted him up against the back of the bed. The old man sat there, on his spine, with his knees propped up in the air and the quilts pulled up around his chin, sipping the wine. "It feels warm," he said weakly. "It sure does feel warm and good. 'Tain't gonna hurt me. I'm gonna die anyways; might' s well die drunk." He took a larger sip, swallowed it, then tasted his tongue in silent study. He raised the glass to his mouth and drank again, more deeply than before. He coughed hollowly. He put the glass in the C::)Verbetween his knees and held it there and coughed again. Then he coughed violently. The great bed shook as he expelled the air from his lungs.
"Aaa, Lord," he gasped. "Lordy."
The girl pushed on his shoulder. "You lay back down," she told him. "Don't drink no more of that."
"Take care, girl," he ordered, screwing his [ 16 J
face into a trown. "I been my own boss for close· on to eighty years, and I ain't aimin' to let nobody else order me around now. Ain't that right, son?"
"That's right, Papa." The son laughed. The old rascal sure was a fire-eater, all right.
The old man took another gulp of the wine. "You sure are lookin' good, Johnny. Look like you put on a little weight, ain't you?"
The son looked down at his middle. He patted his belly. "Little around here, I guess," he admitted. "Yeah, I guess I have."
"Them city folks been f eedin' you right, huh?"
"Huh? Yeah. Yeah, been treatin' me right good."
"Well, that's good. That's fine." The old man coughed again. "Aaa-aa-aaa-aaa- oh, me! What kinda work you doin' ?"
"Who, me? Hardware. Sellin' hardware."
"Well, that's fine. You gittin' along all right, ain't you?"
"Yeah, swell."
"Hardware moves, does it?"
"Yeah. Almost sells itself."
"Well-I guess that's right. You take me, if I want a piece of hardware, why, I just gotta git it. It's somethin' you gotta have. Now, you take that cistern out there. It was so dry last summer that almost no rain got in that cistern. I hadda buy me a piece of roof-gutter and run it from the house to the cistern. That way I got a lot of water."
"Sure, that's it, all right."
"Ain't no trouble sellin' somethin' folks gotta have, is it?"
"No-o-but it ain't no snap job. A man can't just sit and sell anything."
"Lord no! I. don't mean that. A man's gotta git up and twist if he wants to make a livin' in this world."
"Yeah. God helps them that helps themselves, they say."
"Yeah." The old man laughed. " 'Minds me of old Sam Tabor. Old Sam's wife died here 'bout four months ago. The preacher, he was tryin' to cheer up Sam. 'Sam,' he said, 'don't you worry. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.' Old Sam looks at him a minute, and then he says, 'Well, goddam! That's fair enough. That's fair enough!' "
"Heh-heh.'' The son slapped his thigh. "Pretty good." He looked at the glasses. "Let's fill 'em up again."
The old man passed over his glass. "All right, we'll do that. That sure is good wine. Kinda warms up your heart, don't it? Pour it easy, son, so you won't git none of them dregs in the bottom. Your mother could make good wine all right, but she musta used chickenwire to strain it."
"It sure is good wine, all right.''
"Yep. You remember Jake Liggs, don't you?" ·
"Jake Liggs? Mmmmm-"
"Jake Liggs-over at Curry's Gap. You remember!''
The son slapped his leg again. "Sure!" he said. "I remember Jake. What's Jake doin' now?"
"Ain't doin nothin'. He's dead."
"What! Jake's dead? What'd Jake die of?"
"It was bad about Jake. He dumb up on a box to hang a piece of hog on a six-inch nail. The box slipped, and the nail caught Jake in his eye. He hung there screamin' and a-whoppin' at the air till they lifted him off. He died of it."
"Damn! I reckon so! That'd kill any man."
The son ran his tongue around his teeth. He looked around the room. "That stove's kinda in bad shape, ain't it?"
The old man took a drink of his wine. "Yeah, it sure is. We ain't had it two years, either. This'll be the third winter. See how
[ 17}
it's cracked around the fire-box? What causes that, son?"
"Hell, I don't know. We carry a stove like that-the Monitor line. They make a damn good stove. Pretty cheap, too."
"That right? What's a stove like that sell for, son?"
"I don't know right off. Nine-ten dollars, I guess. Good for ten years, too. I could let you know."
"I sure don ' t want another one like this'n."
"Naw--that stove's no good."
The girl got up and closed the draft of the stove. A red-hot ash dropped through the grate to the box. The man looked at his sister.
"How you been, Sis?"
"Oh, I been fine."
"You got any fellers?"
The girl blushed. She ran her fingernail around the shell of her ear and then studied it.
The old man laughed. "Sure she's got fellers. She was stuck on Jake Liggs, too. Tried to tell me she wasn't, but I heard her cryin' when Jake died, and lookin' like a dyin' calf out in a hailstorm."
"Well, that's too bad. Jake was a good man, all right."
"Good, hell. Why, that scoundrel was too lazy to do no thin' 'cept hunt and fish. Him and that old hound dog of his'n been over every inch of woods, fields, and creeks 'round here, I'll bet. Him and that old dog of his'n went off and found a still once. The fellers that found 'em said the dog was as drunk as Jake."
"Go on!"
"It's a fact. Folks say Jake was drunker 'n a coot the day he got kilt. Say that box wouldn't a slipped under a sober man."
"Is that right, now?"
"Ain't missin' it."
The girl looked up. "He always was nice to us," she said.
"Yeah, come by here a couple time and give us a mess a fish or a squirrel. He didn't want 'em. Been different if it'd a been somethin' he wanted. If you call that bein' nice, I reckon he was nice, all right."
"He brought 'em scaled and skinned, ready to fry."
"Yeah-well I know what Jake Liggs was hangin' 'round here for. And you do too."
"Papa! You know that ain't right."
"Ain't right, what ain't right? I seen him nudgin' you all the time and how he looked at you."
"He didn't mean nothin'."
"Naw-'course not. What do you think of that, son-your own sister foolin' 'round with scum like Jake Liggs?"
·The girl laughed nervously. She glanced at her brother. "Papa!" she complained, "you'll have Johnny thinkin' things."
"Thinkin' things! I been thinkin' things, ain't I? How do I know nothin' happened?"
"Nothin' happened, Papa."
"Yeahhhh-you wouldn't say so if it did."
The son looked at his glass. ''Wanta fill 'em again, Papa?"
"Sure. Sure I do. It ain't gonna hurt me, and it makes me feel like I got some warm blood in me."
"How about you, Johnny? You ain't married are you?"
"I should hope not! Ha-ha. No-sirree! Not me."
"Ain't thinkin' about it, huh?"
"Lord no! I got enough to do to support myself, without takin' on somebody else."
"I think that's the way to look at it, all right. The Bible says 'be fruitful and multiply,' but a man can do that without a weddin', huh, Johnny? Now you take me- if I hadn't been such a upstart fool I'd a been somewheres
[ 18}
today. But what'd I do. I got married, and then I had my hands tied. Not that I'm sayin' anything against your mother-she was all right in her way-." He nodded at the girl-. "Your sister's just like her. Women snivel too much."
The old man settled back against the head of the bed and took a big swallow of wine.
"It's gittin' warm in here, ain't it," he said.
"I shut the draft," the girl said.
"I know it-I feel kinda sickish. You know, I think I'm gonna puke-git a bucket or somethin', girl-"
"Just lay still, Papa-that wine did it. I told you it would."
"You better git a bucket."
The girl ran into the kitchen. This is the end. He's dyin' now, sure. She seized a pan from the kitchen table. She heard the old man retch violently, and then go into a fit of coughing, great, hacking coughs that seemed to tremble his very frame. She flew back through the dark hallway to the bedroom.
"Too late, I reckon," the old man said, meek for the first time. "Ain't it a mess."
The old man rolled his eyes around in his head. They looked as if they might fall out
onto his cheeks any moment. They were filmy, and grey, and loose, limber. His mouth trembled. He put his claw of a hand to his throat. "Aaa-Lordy," he moaned.
"Papa, oh Papa," the girl sobbed. She had never seen him look so small. "Lay still, Papa."
"Don't worry-I ain't gonna move much." He smiled a weak, strained smile at his roundeyed son. 'Tm dyin' sure, now. That's blood in it, ain't it? Y essir-and blood on my chest, too." He tucked his chin into his throat and peered down at the scarlet mess on his body. 'Tm sure dyin'."
The girl began to weep. She swayed back and forth on her feet, and moaned. Then she lay down on the bed, diagonally across her father's worn-out body. "Papa," she sobbed.
The old man opened his mouth. He tried to say something. He smiled and closed his eyes, merely closed the lids over the eyes that were fixed on his staring son.
"He's dead," the brother said. "He knew he was gonna die. That was the trouble. If he ' d just said to himself 'I ain't gonna die," maybe he wouldn't-but he didn't put up no fight. Jus' died."
The Dorms Again
It is our fervent hope that, as long as THE MESSENGERexists, literary propriety will never take precedent over liberality of perspective in its editorial policy, and that it will continue to promote, untrammelled by confining interpretations of its scope, worthwhile causes and ideals upon the campus.
With this concept in mind, last year we attacked the deplorable living conditions prevalent in the Richmond College dormitories and laid them before both the administration and the student body. rrour Enemy Within," as our editorialized article was titled, aroused as much criticism of us as of the situation it indicted.
But the spontaneity with which the administration set about meeting the urgency of the needs so squarely, effectively, and painstakingly gratifies THE MESSENGEReditors:
The dormitories have become decidedly finer buildings in which to live. The admirable, cooperative attitude of the administration was tremendously marred, however, by the lack of care students took of their living quarters last winter, necessitating the replacement of some 3,000 windows and door panels, destroyed or damaged by unthinking and inconsiderate men.
One of the first laws of the family is pride in the home. A thoughtful administration has, in spite of the affront offered it by this widespread and wanton abuse, instituted changes of immense value for the wellbeing of campus residents. Upon these students falls the responsibility of showing appreciation by respect for the buildings and efforts to prevent further needless damage.
From Our Files
Realizing the stimulus that derives from the study of contemporaries, we are presenting in this number for the first time a column designed primarily to reflect the thought and writing of other campuses throughout the nation. Incidentally enabling THE MESSENGERto broaden its scope to embrace an even wider diversity of college literature, "From Our Files" consists of selected comment, reprints, or digests of material from other college magazines.
Our initial column includes articles by two seniors, one of Cornell University and the other of Wellesley College. They trenchantly · voice opinions and attitudes of two college groups, entirely antipodean.
H~ving worked his way through college, the Cornell man is profoundly tired of being told that the man who works his way "gets so much more out of college." Against this general and fallacious remark he argues rationally and dispassionately, the bulwark of his case being that one who spends four years at hard labor is deprived of the social amenities that are admitted! y the most remembered and pleasant aspects of college life in later years.
The young lady from Wellesley, however, has been able to participate to the fullest in 'social affairs without being bound to any sort of student job. She finds as much difficulty in meeting the exacting and unfair demands of socially academic life as the man finds in working his way.
So Cornell's writer anticipates the happy day that will afford release from labor, while the Wellesley senior regards graduation day as a probable emancipation from social calendars and class schedules. Just such varied attitudes it is the purpose of "From Our Files" to condense or reprint during the year.
[ 20}
P1ti:z. e ?Jzade
<««««<«<«<« The short, unhappy career of a ship-of-the-line
OF ALL THE BITTER def eats of peace and war none may be more bitter than that of a proudful ship. For, as Joseph Conrad wrote, a ship is a sentient thing, dead, without being when tied at a quay, but vital and throbbing like the blood of a vigorous man, a master as well as a servant, once it rolls out to sail the world's solitudes.
Out of the late American Civil War has come innumerable stories of def eat and bitterness, but few have a more sardonic twist than that of the fine craft, Atlanta 1 Confederate iron-clad ram. Official records, usually unemotional and unimaginative, reveal little of the irony of her fate; its relation was left to a Northern patriotic group in Philadelphia, who published the story in a small pamphlet during the winter of 1863.
Built on the banks of England's Clyde River at an estimated cost of over $1,500,000, the steamer, Fingal 1 was purchased by the Confederate States Government with funds said to have been rai,sed by the ladies of Georgia who sold their jewelry and valuables to support the cause. The Fingal ran the blockade into Savannah with a munitions cargo in November of 1861. Its efforts to re-run the blockade with a load of cotton bound for Europe were fruitless. So it was decided to convert the vessel into an iron-clad ram and put it into service in regular naval duty. This task took fourteen months, and the ship was ultimately christened, the Atlanta.
After the remodeling had been completed, the Atlanta attempted the blockade again in vam. But on June 7, 1863, it was made known
that the vessel would proceed down the Wilmington River, engage two Federal gunboats waiting for her, defeat them, and then raid the Northern sea-coast towns. All of the Atlanta 1 s plans were betrayed to the Union blockading fleet by deserters from Savannah.
In the early dawn of June 17th, the two gunboats, Weehawken and Nahant 1 both flying the United States flag, rode at anchor in Wassaw Sound near the mouth of the Wilmington River. A picket boat had just returned from up the river, where it had been waiting to report the approach of the Atlanta. Scarcely had the gunboats' picket bunked when the Confederate ship' was seen coming down, some three miles distant. Since the Union craft were not lying bow on, due to flood-tide, they steamed down the sound, put about in deep water, and returned to meet their adversary.
So confident of victory for the Atlanta were the ladies of Savannah that they followed the ram in two wooden gunboats, so that they might watch the engagement.
The Nahant was soon left far astern by the W eehawken 1 which steamed up to engage the Southern vessel. When the Atlanta arrived within six hundred yards of the W eehawken 1 she ran aground, but succeeded in backing off, only to run aground a second time. The Weehawken was unaware that the Atlanta was aground. When she was four hundred yards off, the Atlanta opened fife on her with a pivot gun. The shot fell short. Captain Rodgers of the Weehawken sighted his fifteen-inch gun with cool deliberation. Its solid shot wrecked the shutter of the Atlanta's starboard aft port-
[ 21}
hole and the iron and woodwork adjoining. Again, the Atlanta's pivot gun roared. And again the shot fell short. The Weehawken .fired. The top of the Atlanta's pilot house was carried away, and the falling debris severely injured two of the three pilots. The Atlanta tried her fore starboard gun. She still failed to reach the enemy. The Weehawken put a shot across the ruins of her opponent's pilot house and sent another ball roaring through her smokestack. Valiantly, the Atlanta .firedagain and missed. Now within two hundred yards, the gun crew of the Union vessel sighted and .fired. The solid .fifteen-inch shell crashed into the Confederate's side, just aft of the starboard fore port-hole, causing her to stagger as though fatally strickened. Four-inch wroughtiron armor bent in, and the eighteen-inch planking backing it flew into fragments, killing one and wounding thirteen of the gunners. Gunners at the pivot gun near by fell to the deck stunned. The heavy ball rolled ' noisily from the ship's side into the river. A white flag fluttered out from the smashed pilot house. The two gunboats, in which the ladies had come from Savannah, hastened up the river towards the city.
Captain Harmony was dispatched from the Weehawken to receive the sword of the Confederate commander and to take possession of the ship for the United States Navy. The torpedo, which hung under the Atlanta 's bow,
was raised, anchors lowered, new Confederate flag run down, and Union flag broken out. Thus ended the .fighting career of the great ram, pride of the deep South, Atlanta
On the 18th of June, she ploughed through heavy, rolling seas into the harbor at Port Royal, South Carolina, flying from her stern the Stars and Stripes. She was making seven knots, and officers aboard said she would be capable of eleven in fair weather. Her Confederate crew of one hundred sixty-five men, a down-hearted lot, was placed aboard the Federal ship, James Adger, bound for New York and prison. But a crushing ironic fate awaited the ship itself.
It was taken into dry-dock in Philadelphia and repaired in enemy yards. Then, lying lifeless at a wharf at the foot of Washington Street, she was made an object of display for curiosity seekers. And the money collected from those who boarded her was put to what the little pamphlet considered a "noble work in replenishing the funds of an institution for the purpose of feeding Union soldiers! " This institution was a saloon which offered food to men going to and returning from the .field of battle in Virginia and was responsible for the publication of the story of "the rebel ram, Atlanta, now on exhibition at the foot of Washington Street, for the benefit of the Union Volunteer Refreshment Saloon."
?n~Dea'tesl:
I know how you'd hate my waiting for you every night until you were safely in bed"Y ou' re treating me like a child," you'd sayand so I shall try not to let you know I'm awake. But you see, I must stay, just in case; an old-fashioned, superstitious emotion, I suppose, feeling that I'm alwa~s near. and ready to catch the faintest, fleetmg whisper . . . but I cherish the thought.
I've had an odd, mixed sensation of sadness and suspense all evening, like the hushed breath of the earth before thunder. And as I was wandering around aimlessly, pushing behind me each heavy minute, I came, in an old, forgotten drawer, upon a box of snapshots and mementos and laughter and tears useless and sentimental junk. Your 'baby pictures and baby book, adorned with faded pink ribbons and love. A red-gold cu_rl snipped by adoring fingers and tenderly laid away A little pink bootee of silk and lace, tiny and fragile. A dilapidated rag-doll. Pictures of your first summer at the beach, when you tried to hug all the little wavelets that tickled your toes. An excerpt from my diary: "Of course, since she is my first, and a girl, I have great hopes for her. Daddy is already trying to decide which boot shall kick the young jack-anapes out of the front doorSnooks has such a kissable mouth." And another: "I look forward eagerly to giving her a college education, and if she doesn't love school as I did, it will break my heart." Love school? It was your life-but you'll never realize the pain it brings a mother to send her daughter away from her, even for so short a time each day. And how I covet, now, those hours we might have shared together.
I found your first tooth, too, for which the
fairies gave you a dime and a kiss; your ardent faith in them always made my heart smile. Snapshots, report cards, old favors from parties, honor ribbons, and remains of beloved dresses. A pair of red mittens, badly worn and badly mended. The first Christmas gift you ever gave me-a silly little music box that played "Sweethearts" over and over and over. A ring with your initials, unbelievably small. A drawing, entitled simply, "Me," worthy of any surrealist exhibit. Another pair of shoes, larger now and scuffed.
It is strange how slowly you grew, and how little: you stayed always so slender and shapely and dainty. Especially in your first long gown remember? Blue georgette with rosebuds sprinkled on it-a piece of it was folded up in an old dance program.
And your first date-Johnny, of course. Under all the silly remembrances there are of him is a beautiful recording of "Stardust," so terribly reminiscent of that summer. Moonlit nights in the swing, ice-cream cones and the circus, long swims at dawn, young love and real heart-break when he went away. Bundles of letters from you to me. Poems by Whitman and Sandhurst. Dead roses still fragrant.
It was just a year ago tonight that you went away, wasn't it? It seems eons more, sometimes, when I yearn to see you and talk to you; then again it seems only yesterday .... Time is so confused in my mind now. Baby footsteps pattering down through the years mingle with girlish laughter in my ears, and baby fingerprints tangle with girlish poetry in my heart. One picture, however, stands clear and high above the others: your ethereal smile, radiant even in death, rising from the heady fragrance of Easter lilies and gardenias. It was as though, even then, you were continuing between us our unbreakable bond of love, our slender thread of sunshine stretched across
23]
immeasurable space, which even death could never cut.
Before you died, I of ten wondered if you could know how I loved you, loved your daintiness and friendliness, your trust and sincerity, your gayety and your smile. I wondered, too, how much of that love you gave back to me. I learned, that night a year ago. "What God would sever a love by death, were that love strong enough to transcend its barrier?" you said, and those were your very words. Cleareyed and rather breathless, you lay on your couch, holding my clammy hand. "Write to me," you said: "tell me what you are doing and thinking and saying. I won't be able to
By Kitty Crawford
answer you, but you'll know, and you'll feel me though you can't hear me."
And I have felt you. Sometimes I walk into your room and lay my head on your old tweed coat, trying to force you to come to me. And I cry, softly or sobbingly-that is always in vain. Again a shadow, or a flower, or a fragrance makes me whirl around, tearful and glad, knowing that you are with me, if only for a minute ....
I have satiated my lonely, yearning heart for an hour, and now, far across the hushed city, the cathedral bells are tolling midnight. Goodnight, now, my precious, goodnight.
Time is a wounded bird, Dragging its useless wing Across my weary brain. And sharp and searing pain Tearing my world apart.
Low lie the stars tonight, Cradled in the valley, And arid, cruel moonglow Burns far within-I'll know And realize infinity.
KIRA NICHOLSKY.
The Capito l of Virginia
We're Working Our Way Through College
By J. ELLIS COLE '39
The man who is working his way through college is beset by many difficulties; but paramount among them is the constant trying of his patience and intelligence by those poor, well-meaning souls who sing that old song that goes something like this: "The boy who has to work his way through college usually gets so much more out of it." The statement should read: "The boy who works his way through college is poignantly aware of the parts of college life which he must, of necessity, miss, and that after four years of subjection to this enforced denial, he turns out to be either a Spartan or a cynic." It is our purpose to catalogue some of the disadvantages of working one's way through college.
Contrary to the picture usually drawn of him by those seeking to edify him, the boy who is forced to work his way is not the "Frank Merriwell" type. He does not look the other way when a pretty girl passes. He does not spend long hours dreaming of the day when he will become President of the United States. He does not prefer solitude. He likes a glass of beer and convivial company even as you do. Being of the same age as his classmates, he enjoys the same amusements. He likes to dance but his chances of attending many dances are extremely limited.
He would like to belong to a fraternity. He'd like to dwell in the very center of the social current; but he just cannot do it-he doesn't have the money. Thus the door to honorary and social societies, the incidental accumulation of "belly brass," and the resulting horde of acquaintanceships are closed to him. His financial condition alone bars him from winning any of the major competitions, since, despite the vehement annual denials of the fraternity group, they are definitely tied up within these organizations.
He is forced to deny himself attendance at plays, concerts, and other worthwhile activities of the social year in college. The prohibitive price of tickets keeps him from these . He attends few athletic contests since sixteen dollars for a ticket book is just another impossibility for him. His cheering for dear old Alma Mater is limited to the living room where a radio account of the contest is com-
ing in. In short, he must indulge in a kind of "window -shopping" through life for four years. There is still another prohibitive factor-time. There are approximately five hours in the average college day which must be spent in classes and "labs." The self-supporting student must spend an average of four and a half hours of the remaining nineteen hours of his day in doing the job which provides him with his living. This leaves him approximately fourteen and a half hours in which to study, get his rest, and go to and from classes. If he gets an average of eight hours of rest each night, and studies at least four hours, it leaves him just two and one-half hours of each college day with which he can do anything he likes. Just when does the man or woman who is working his or her way through college find time to "get so much more out of it?" Perhaps some of those who write magazine articles glorifying the self-supporting student could tell us. It does seem to be a kind of mathematical impossibility, doesn't it?
Do not mistake the meaning of this article. It does not seek to proffer apologies for those who are working their way. They do not need to offer them. Nor do they complain. They realize that there is nothing particularly heroic about the man who is working his way through college. He is in school primarily for his own benefit and if he is not content with his lot, he usually drops out. However, it does make anyone who is self-supporting fighting mad when he hears the old prattle about "getting more out of college."
-Areo pagus, Cornell University.
f f f
On Not Being Sorry to Graduate
By NANCY WHITON
The average college student is variously represented in our leading magazines as a wastrel, a drudge, or a combination of overdeveloped athlete and intellectual moron. Yet there seems to be only one popular conception of the college graduate. The characteristic for which he is most noted is his ability to become quietly tearful, over a glass of sherry and in the presence of two or three friends, about "the four best years of my life." As I set out upon the last of these "best years," I find myself wondering whether I am to become a regretful "reminiscer," or whether I shall be glad that my college days are over.
At present, I am sure that the latter will be my attitude. I look forward to the time when I shall not have to solve the problem of an engagement [ 25}
book which reads: "4:40, Hockey; 4:40, Tea at Shakespeare; 4:40, Lecture by Professor Whitehead." In fact, the fortieth minute of the hour shall cease to exist .1s a deadline for me. Out of sheer spite, I shall begin my day ten minutes early, at 8: 30, with no gentle clang of bell to prod me. Or, if in the evening, no engagement presents itself, I can catch up on current fiction, freed at last from the mental image of Boring ' s History of Exp erimental Psychology , open at page 204, to mar my vicarious enjoyment of the heroine's ordeals. When an exciting week-end invitation comes, I shall not have to stifle the insistent voice of my conscience, reminding me of a quiz to be studied for. Perhaps I shall waste time, but the amount will no longer be measured in terms of "A," "B," and " C."
Best of all, I shall become reacquainted with my family. In four years they have come to regard me as a strange being which flies in and out of the house at stated intervals, but which seldom sits down. Now I shall not only sit down, but I shall sit in on the family conclaves, as a consulting member, instead of as a negligible infant. I shall gather my family news at first hand, instead of from meager snatches of correspondence. "The birthday party was a great success; sixteen of us sat down to a turkey dinner." (That's nice, WE had meat loaf.) (Sorry, old dear, but the kings of England had my undivided attention THAT afternoon.)
Family parties will be, of course , part of the fun, but not all. There will be time for Harry and me to continue our interminable, logical, senseless argument about the value of a college education. I have missed my big brother, to be sure; more than that, I think I have found a sister. The nine years' difference in our ages has been steadily shrinking. No longer am I "the kid sister ," to be dismissed with a hopeless sigh; we can hardly wait to share the things girls' brothers, and even parents fail to understand. Perhaps it is I who have changed most, but from my perspective they have changed, too, and become an interesting and very dear group of individuals, not just a number of people who lived in my house.
From my family I can always count on apprecia-
tion, but to the rest of the world, I shall have to prove the worth of the training I have been receiving for twenty years. Until now my existence has consisted mainly in opening my mouth to take in the benefits of civilization in small, pleasant doses, the whole to be fused into a "well-rounded background," good manners, and an acceptable personality. As an adult , relatively independent, I shall have to make my own career, and its success will, I hope, justify the efforts of all those who have torn their hair over my education.
Of course, I expect to startle, if not reform, the world, to create a sensation which will perpetuate my name as the benefactress of mankind. I have not yet decided just how this is to be brought about, but I have perfect confidence that it will be effected with little difficulty. If, on the other hand, the passage of ten years finds me, instead of a household work, an indispensable part of one household, I shall not, frankly, be very much surprised, nor very much disappointed. My ambitious dreams may be supplanted by more prosaic realities, but I shall feel that I have vindicated my existence by helping others to get at least a little more value from theirs.
It is such an inviting, though uncertain world that I see stretching for me beyond next June. I can even see as far as next September, when I shall be shedding copious tears at the thought of academic processions, Christmas vespers, barn productions, and hilarious dormitory parties going on without me or the friends with whom I shared the " four best years of my life." Whether I shall really wish myself back in the somewhat unnatural atmosphere of college is another question. Nevertheless, I shall undoubtedly be looking forward to a radical change in the near future, forgetting that I had, not so long ago, regarded graduation as the ultimate goal. Perhaps if I "might read the book of fate," I, like Shakespeare ' s youth, " Would shut the book, and sit me down and die."
Fortunately, this power is denied me , but I do know that it is speculation about what is written there for me that keeps my zest for continued existence at that fever pitch which is Life.
- The Wellesley Rev i ew.
A few nights ago, quite late, we watched an eerie violent drawing assume proportion and light and shadow. As the artist wearily threw down her pencil, spun the pad across the desk-top for our inspection, and said, "There he is, Peter Ellyson , " the bulk of work for the October MESSENGERwas complete. About the office we have been referring to it as the "Mayhem and Murder" number - for obvious reasons. Contributory to its somber mood are FLORENCE LAFOON'S graphic illustrations for "I, Peter Ellyson " and "The Prodigal Son." We are proud of the Lafoon cuts and expect to carry more of them throughout the year.
PHILIP COOKE'S narrative, based on the "Premature Burial" plot, follows, of course, Edgar Allan Poe's style. COOKE will be remembered for his "whodunit" in the June M ESSENGER.At
that time, we remarked that he styled his writing after_ Edgar Wallace. We vaguely suspect that William Shakespeare will be his next paragon .... We have commented in earlier columns on the realistic impact of OTTO WHITTAKER'S prose. "The Prodigal Son" is vital literature, sordid, perhaps, but mirroring life. In no Gothic vein, but altogether melancholy is KITTY CRAW~ORD'S_ "My Dearest," a touching bit of exposit10n. Miss Crawford is new to the magazine, says she is "terribly uninteresting," and has a twelveyear-old's hobby. It might be added that she was co-editor of the Richmond Thomas Jefferson High School annual and feature editor of the newspaper. "From Our Files," our new column of exchange articles is conducted by CARL WOOST, author of the treatise on Brewology. We, of course, will be charter members in the old professor ' s class! In fact, it seems an excellent idea to investigate immediately the thoroughness of writer W oost' s investigations into that diverse field. . . .
( Right ) CRASHING A PLANE through a house is the spectacular specialty of Stunt Pilot Frank Frakes. And, at this writing, he 's done it 53 times-on movie locations , at exhibitions. Time after time, with his life actually in his hands, it's easy to understand wby Pilot Frakes says: " I take every precaution to keep my nerves steady as a rock. Natu• rally, I'm particular about the cigarette I smoke. And you can bet my choice is Camel. I can smoke as many as I want and feel fresh;never a hie jittery or upset.' '
Camels are a matchless blend af finer, MORE EXPENSIVE TOBACCOS - Turkish and Domestic Meet thesemenwho livewith tobaccofrom plantingto marketingandnotethe cigarette theysmoke
"Most tobacco planters I know prefer Came ls," says grower Tony Strickland, "because Camel buy s th e fine grades of tobaccomy own and those of other growers. And Camel bids high to get these finer lots. It 's Camels for me!"
Planter David E. Wells knows every phase of tobacco culture the "inside" story of tobacco quality. "At sale after sale," he says, "Camel buy s up my finest grades at top prices. It's natural for most planters lik e me to smoke Ca mel s."
LION! MP! Koontz, noted lion and tiger earner, schools "big cars " for Hollywood films. Sketch (le/ti shows Mel meering the lunge of a savage 4 50-poun<l b east That's where nerve-power cells -as ~fel kno,vs! He says chis : "Camels don't jangl e my nerve~my mind is at rest as to that! Camels are mildt:1· - the natural mildness that 's trown right in the tobacco. We animal tamers stick to Camels!,.
(Above) THREE TIMES Lou Meyer 'WOn the lndianapol is auto-racing classic -only driver in history co achieve chis amazing triple• test of nerve control. He says: My nerves must be eve1-y bit as sound as the motor in my racer. That's why I go for Camels.They never get on my nerves a bit Camels take first place with m e for mil u ue Js!"
(Left) THRILLING STUNTS for the movies! Ione Reed needJ healthy nerves! Naturally, Miss Reed chooses her cigarette with car e." My nerves. " she says, must be right-and no mistake! So I stick to Camels. Even smoking Camels steadily doesn't bother my nerves. In face, Camels give me a grand sense of comfort. And they taste so good! Stunt men and women favor Camels."
"l ought to know finer tobaccos make finer cigarettes," says grower John T Caraway. "I've been smoking Camels for 23 years. Camel pays more to get my finest tobacco-many's the year. Camels are the big favorite with planters here ."
