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THE MESSENGERI
UNIVERSITYOF RICHMOND i
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~<:::::,.<::::,.<:::::,.,~~~~:::::>":::::>":::::>"::::>-'::::>-':::Y::::,.-<:::,,..<:::,,..<:::,,..<:::,.,<:::,.<::::,.<::::,.<::::,.<::,,<::,,<::,,<:::,..<:::::,..<:::Y<::-,..<:::::,.
Florence LaFoon
====<::::,.<::::,.<:::::,.,<:::::,.,~~~:::::>"::::>-'~::::>-'::::,.-<::::,.-<::::,.-<::::,.-<:::,,..<:::,,..<:::,..<:::,,<:::,.<::::,.<::::,..<::::,..<::,,<:><:::,,-._,-._,-._,-._ .i, .i, : PHYLLIS ANNE COGHILL, Editor-in-Chief; MURRAY BARR, Richmond. College Editor; :t JEAN LOUISE NEASMITH, Westhampton College Editor ; SIMPSON WILLIAMS, Business Manager; ROBERT BLACK, Assistant Business Manager; LEANDER SAUNDERS, JR ., :t STRAUGHAN LOWE GETTIER, Richmond College Assistant Editors; JOHN DECKER, THEO- :t .i, DORE T UR NER, WILBUR SKINNER , Associate Editors; HELEN HILL, KIRA NICHOLSKY, Westhampton College Assistant Editors; MARY GRACE SCHERER, PAT ABERNETHY, :t :::: JANICE LANE, Associate Editors; ED LUTTRELL, ROBERT CARTER , LOUISE HALL, Art :t ~ff .i, .i, :TTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT~TTi
E D I TO RI A L
with battle headlines, London audiences sat
with keenest interest through 'Disputed Passage,' with its vivid picture of a Chinese hospital during an air raid." The literature which gives us enjoyment may at the same time, if artistically handled, carry a profound
With the pace of life as swift as it is today, significance which often we receive unconwith the pace of death so much swifter, it sciously But the message has reached us, would be an ignorant youth who demanded nevertheless. refuge from reality. We cannot deny that in Therefore, you, the contributors of THE this hour the "flower of safety" is threatened MESSENGER,may choose many angles of apand is frail. If THE MESSENGER is to continue proach to fit your "cast of mind." Write as a cross-sectional product of student think- freely; for there is no censorship here beyond ing, it cannot speak from the vacuum of isola- that of good taste. This is your magazine and tion. It will express some awareness of the however the faculty or staff may feel, in order world's great sickness "close under chaos," that this may be an honest publication, we but our faith in the American way should must print what the student feels, thinks, and emerge _stronger than ever. Here there is no says. Yet often the material within these covblackout over academic freedom of expres- ers has not been representative of a large sion. Our youth may write as it feels and enough group, on either the Richmond or thinks as long as it accepts the challenge to Westhampton campus. There have been and do responsible thinking. And what the Uni- are many students who express intelligently in versity of Richmond youth writes with this discussion some valuable ideas, but they feel ideal in mind, THE MESSENGERpublishes. either incapable of writing an article for pub-
For the generation that has learned to be lication or scorn being " literary." This is an skeptical of propaganda and to search for the unfortunate attitude, but a prevailing one. sound organization of truth, for the genera- In an attempt to meet this problem THE MEstion that recognizes a crisis and wants to face SENGERasks of its contributors not only it squarely and not hysterically, escape is not articles, short stories, plays, poems, and rethe only function of literature in wartime. views, but letters. We are initiating a DepartThe literature of today reflects the philosophy ment of Letters to the Editor. The subjects of of a youth that does not want to be protected these letters will not be restricted as long as and that does not want to be trapped because the writers make a sincere attempt at reof its ignorance. It is the duty of the college sponsible thinking. Otherwise, twenty-five to clarify for its students the issues that they years hence we may be called to youth's bar must meet as citizens. The college atmos- of judgment to argue our case just as we now phere and the college faculty should influence demand that the generation that preceded us the students to think rationally and courage- speak again and shed light on their past utously. Our campus literature must answer terances. THE MESSSENGERfiles show how this need. that other pre-war generation thought and
Now, as always, the forms in which our wrote. How do they think and write today? ideas are expressed are varied-some subtle, We invite their expression and urge them to some startling! y realistic. We quote this pas- help us shape our future. sage from the February, 1940 issue of Theatre Our charge is to serve American ideals, to Arts Magazine. "With the world crashing further the American way. Even the least of around them men must know as much as they us may study how best to answer the issues of can, test their courage in imagination, experi- today, and from the least may come the wisest ment with fear. While newspapers flared leadership. Such is our heritage.
[ 2]
By R. T. BROGAN
IF ONE were to make a tour of the airports of the United States this winter, at many of them would be found a group of small planes maneuvering about the landing field. Piloting these student ships will be thousands of university students who are receiving their flight training and ground school instruction at the expense of the government. During the past winter and summer, fifty-three students of the University of Richmond have completed this course and are now holders of private pilot certificates. Does it seem strange that the Congress of the United States is spending millions of dollars to
give the youth of the nation an opportunity to fly? Through an examination of the program we can find the answer to this and other questions. What are the ambitious students taught during their training period? What is the purpose of the great plan? Of what significance will it be in the days to come? What will it mean to industry?
To understand what the prospective pilot must go through before he can secure a license , let us follow a member of the class at the University of Richmond through his training period. When he has applied to the dean and satisfied the requirements of the government as to age and edu-
[ 3 ]
cation, the fledgling is sent to the local military examining physician, Dr. Southward, for his physical examination. For over an hour the tortures of the condemned rack the mind of the hopeful flyer as he faces the prospect of failure.
Of the utmost importance to the pilot is the condition of his eyes which are thoroughly tested for color blindness, near-sightedness, far-sightedness, astigmatism, depth perception, and for any serious diseased condition that might be dangerous in the air. A seemingly endless series of charts and lenses are used to determine whether or not the applicant can see well enough to pilot an aircraft successfully and safely.
If the doctor finds that the student's eyes are good enough for the task they will be called on to perform, he goes on with his examination-inspecting next the nose, throat, and ears for any unhealthy condition. For several minutes he works with lights and tongue depressers and is very careful to note anything that is not as it should be. If he is again satisfied, he makes a thorough check of the circulatory system with the aid of the Schneider index. For several minutes the applicant is kept quiet on a cot, and then his pulse and blood pressure are taken. After he has stood for two minutes, they are taken again, and the process is repeated after a minute of strenuous exercise. From the readings he gets, the physician figures the index by means of a chart, and if it is above a certain limit, the grueling test proceeds.
Very useful and necessary to a pilot is a good sense of balance, without which he can not be trusted to fly safely. To test the sense of balance and equilibrium, the young man is asked to stand on one foot for fifteen seconds with his eyes closed. Finally, if the coordination of mind and muscle seems to be all right, the applicant is given a student pilot certificate which permits him to enter flight instruction.
When the first class meeting is called, those who have come through the hazards successfully report to Dr. Lampson or Don Murrill, a graduate of the University of Richmond, for their ground instruction, of which at least seventy-two hours are required. Textbooks are issued and the study of the subjects required by the government is begun.
First in line for perusal is the history of aviation, from the ill-fated attempt of Daedalus and Icarus to the first successful flight under power by the Wright brothers at Kitty Hawk in 1903. The development of today ' s great airlines is traced from the first mail route to the immense sky liners which now follow schedules as closely as the railroads. The stimulating effect of the World
War is grasped, and the expansion of the industry is followed through until the present.
The second subject taken up is the theory of flight. The construction of wings and other airfoils is studied, and the forces acting upon the aircraft and their interaction and results are dealt with in some detail. Following the study of the machine as a whole, the various parts are taken up for separate study The operation of a gasoline engine is explained and discussed , and the component parts of the engines are examined and handled in the laboratory The various instruments , those pertaining to the engine and those concerned with the flight of the plane, are studied and their importance to safety is stressed. Several hours are spent in the study of parachutes, and of the airport traffic control procedures, including the use of the radio and the broadcasting techniques which are required
When the mechanics of the aircraft have become more or less familiar to the student, he goes on to the task of learning the rules and regulations which apply to the air. He learns how high he must fly under certain conditions, and how low he may fly in various situations, which may confront him. He learns who has the right-of-way when two planes approach each other, when he can land and when he can take off, the weather minimums necessary for flight, the signals used to control traffic, and the requirements for the various types of certificates He finds out the procedures he must follow in case of accident, the preparations he must make before he does any stunting, and a multitude of other pertinent facts concerning the legal operation of an airplane
Last in line for study are the subjects dealing with navigation and meteorology-probably the most important aspect of safe flying He learns to plot a course by the use of a chart and to use a compass, allowing for variation, deviation, and the effect of the wind. The charts placed at his disposal by the administration are studied closely , and the symbols used are memorized . The art of following a course by means of landmarks is discussed, and the procedure in making out a flight plan is practiced. Navigation problems dealing with different sets of conditions are assigned and later brought to class and discussed.
In the study of meteorology, the students learn to know the different cloud formations and to forecast their effect upon the wind and upon weather conditions in general. The causes and effects of pressure areas are discussed, and the use of a weather map for forecasting the weather is considered. During the hours spent on the study of the weather, the student keeps a record of baro-
metric readings and temperature readings, and at the end of the time he makes a forecast of the weather for the coming days.
Upon the completion of the ground training, the students take the government's written examination for the private pilot rating, the purpose of which is to determine whether or not the student pilot has a sufficient knowledge of the rules he must obey, of the principles of navigation, and of the reading of signs pertaining to the weather.
While he is learning facts and theories on the ground, the fledgling is also learning the practical side of flying at the airport chosen for the training program. When he has passed his physical examination, and has received notice that his insurance policy has come through, our flying Spider reports to "Squeak" Burnette at Byrd Airport and is assigned to an instructor who is to be his tutor in the handling of an airplane in the air and on the ground.
After the student and his instructor have become acquainted, they go on to the field for the first time and climb into one of the little yellow ships for the first flight. A few minutes are spent on the ground learning the uses of the instruments, and then comes the first great thrill of flight as the instructor takes off from the airport and climbs to a safe altitude. When he reaches what he considers to be sufficient height, he explains more fully the use of the controls and turns the handling of the plane over to the student. Things seem to happen faster than usual for the first few minutes as the mistakes of the fledgling are called to his attention by the voice of his instructor booming through the speaking tube, and when the first half hour is up, the newcomer is quite ready to call it a day.
For about three hours, the training consists of
straight and level flight, turns, climbing angles and gliding angles, climbing turns and gliding turns, and the proper use of the throttle. For half-hour periods, limited to two a day, the pilotto-be practices these maneuvers under the watchful eye of his instructor and is corrected in no uncertain terms when his actions are not suitable.
After three hours have been spent on these fundamentals, perhaps the hardest task of all is undertaken, that of taking off and landing. During the first take off, the ship almost invariably wanders all over the runway, and takes at least three little hops before it finally leaves the ground, and the first landing is always an experience to be long remembered. However, the takeoffs improve much faster than the landings. It is a nerveracking job learning to get a plane off the ground and back again with some semblance of consistency and finesse. No two are the same, and a new problem must be met on almost every hop. Usually, though, after four or five hours of vigorous yelling on the part of the instructor and a feeling of hopelessness on the part of the student, things suddenly begin to happen with more order and consistency and from that point on the improvement is continuous.
About the sixth or seventh hour of instruction is devoted to spins, the surprised student being called upon when he is least expecting it to go through what he thinks is going to be some harrowing experience. With their parachutes in place, the two parties to the task take to the air and climb to about three thousand feet. After explaining the necessary operations to the student, the instructor goes through a two-turn spin. It is a most unusual sensation and one that is found nowhere else. After the first effects of surprise have dissipated, the average student, much to his amaze-
[ 5 }
ment, finds himself enjoying the gyrations of the ship. When he has proved that he has learned his lesson, the flight is terminated, and the student leaves the field knowing that his heartfelt ambition-to solo-is near at hand.
·
Eight hours of flight instruction are required before a solo trip is permitted, and the remaining time seems to pass rather slowly. Usually the student does not know when this long-awaited hop is scheduled to begin. When it does come, it proves to be one of the most thrilling and gratifying experiences imaginable. The feeling of absolute freedom from all restraint and the sensation of being in the air alone and out of the reach of all spatial restrictions are conducive to ;,elf-confidence of a kind seldom experienced. Although the students are nervous and some mistakes are made, there is seldom any mishap during the solo Once the fledgling learns that he can really fly alone , his improvement is accelerated by his confidence.
After the solo, the newly-initiated flyer spends several hours practicing approaches and landings without the company of the instructor. When he has a total of twelve hours, new approaches and new types of maneuvers are taught to him, and he practices these alone. More spins are done, steep turns are learned, and instruction in forced landings is begun. Until he has flown about twentyeight hours, all of his time in the air is spent perfecting these basic maneuvers.
When the twenty-eight-hour mark is reached - the time for the cross-country flight-the third big thrill is at hand. Taking off from Byrd, with the instructor in the front seat, the student flies to Hermitage Airport and lands. If the landing is satisfactory, they take off again and follow their course to the Hopewell Airport where another landing is made. When the return trip to Byrd has been made, the student is sent off alone to fly the course. Two trips are made, one in each direction, to make sure that the navigation of the student is satisfactory.
Thirty-five hours are necessary before the flight test may be undertaken. The time remaining after the completion of the cross-country trips is spent in practice on all the maneuvers which the student will be called on to perform by the inspector. A parachute is required during the test, and since the student does not take his training with a parachute, he has to become accustomed to the extra height of the seat.
When the great day of the final test comes, the faint-hearted student goes up in sight of the inspector, does his spins and spot landings, and comes back down to pick him up. He then is put
through his paces. If he successfully does each maneuver, and sat isfies the inspector that he is well enough versed in flying to be trusted with the lives of others in the air, he is awarded his certificate and joins the growing army of flyers in the United States.
If further training is desired by the graduates of the primary training program, they can receive instruction in heavier and more powerful ships by applying for the advanced course which is offered by the CA .A. This course consists of more than one hundred hours of ground school and about forty hours in the air, the flight training devoted mostly to acrobatics. When the advanced course has been completed , there is the course designed for the training of instructors in line for study, graduation from which places the pilot in position for a job as an official instructor.
Now that we know just what the government is doing in the line of training, let us turn our attention to the whys and wherefores of all this trouble and expense. The original purpose of the program was to foster and promote interest in private flying in the United States, and for a time, that was the only view in the minds of its creators and of those who carried it out . Private pilots were turned out in large numbers, airport activity increased, airmindedness was fostered, and everyone except a few skeptics was satisfied.
However, during the past year , events have taken place the world over, which changed the outlook for the future--the immediate future--of American aviation . The wars in Asia and Europe have definitely proved the airplane to be the most dangerous and the most feared of almost all military weapons. Germany, with huge fleets of ships built under the noses of the supposedly great powers of Europe, pounded the Poles, the Dutch, the Belgians, the Norwegians, and the French into submission in a few short weeks of war. British soldiers returned to their island after the Battle of Flanders calling for more planes, begging for more planes. During the last terrible weeks of the conflict, they have wreaked destruction upon the British Isles. It is the opinion of most of the great military minds of the age that the Second World War will be settled by the supremacy in the air. If the British can cut down the German air force to such an extent that they can match them plane for plane, they will probably be victorious in the end. On the other hand, if the Nazis can maintain their present advantage in numbers over the English, the final reckoning will probably be in their favor. Such is the importance of an air army.
Piloting these hordes of bombers and fighters for the German government are thousands of
flyers trained before the war in seemingly harmless gliders. Of course, the ability to fly a glider does not make a military pilot, but it teaches the fundamentals of flight and gives the trainees some experience in the air. It takes much less time to train a man that has some idea of what is expected of him than it does to start from the very beginning of the somewhat complicated art of piloting a ship.
If the Germans can accomplish such a training program by using gliders as training ships, surely the same thing can be done in this country with the light planes we have developed. Of all the thousands of youths now being taught to fly, quite a few will go into the military service of the nation on their own accord. If such volunteers are not sufficient for the expansion program now under way, and it seems that they will not be, selective service can be brought into play to complete the necessary numbers. It is now required of all who take the course that they agree to apply for training in the air force of the country if they are called upon to do so The wars of the world have shown the superiority of airplanes over immense ground fortifications and the absolute necessity of a powerful air arm to any country in the world that wants to keep its shores free from invaders and its people free from the shackles of tyranny. If the United States can produce enough ships for the air fleet, and given time it can, the training program of the C. A. A . should be able to produce the men to fly them. There is great talk of the bottle neck in industry, but the most dangerous bottle neck is in the production of trained men to operate the machines when they are manufactured. The government, by its training of civilian pilots, is doing much to break through this jam and prepare the nation for the test of strength which seem s rapidly to be coming in its direction.
In the event that some unforeseen happenings in the international situation preclude, for a time at least , the probability of armed conflict for this country, the time , efforts, and money spent on the civilian training program will in no way have been wasted. Its results will fulfill the purpose for which it was originally intended . Interest in aviation will continue to grow, and as the interest of the nation increases, the aviation industry will grow to keep pace with it.
During the past few years, there has appeared in this country a new industry based on the development of the light plane. Ships have now been developed which can be afforded by almost anyone who can afford a good automobile. Relatively inexpensi ve to own and operate, simple to fly and
service, and safe to the point of being almost foolproof, they answer the need for a plane designed and constructed for mass public use.
As the taxpayer's money teaches young men and women to fly, the demand for these light planes to rent and own will increase to many times its present level. New factories will have to be constructed to take care of the increasing production, and these factories will provide jobs for large numbers of workers. As the number of planes grows, the need for more airport facilities will accompany it, and capital will be invested in their construction. For each airport there will have to be managers , service men, clerks, and weather bureau officials. Control tower operators, radio men, and many other types of workers will find an increased demand for their services. Such is the effect that the present program will have on industry in the future.
Although the airlines of this country have already covered it thoroughly with scheduled routes, the development of the air transportation industry is by no means complete. New fields are being opened up all the time, both in this country and in South America. New lines are going to be chartered and placed in operation, and for each of these new routes, there will have to be men trained in matters concerning flying. The commercial lines like the private pilots will require more airport and handling facilities, and as these needs grow, the employment of trained men will follow. For every man needed in the air there will be several needed on the ground to keep the ships in condition for operation. Thousands of mechanics will be in demand, more airport personnel, and more men in the plane construction plants will be needed. Side by side with the light plane industry the air transportation field will progress, furnishing the nation with one of its needs, a new and healthy growing industry to provide employment for men and capital. If carried on a large enough scale, it might do something toward giving business as a whole the stimulus which it seems at the present to be lacking. As the automobiles once brought new wealth to the country, the aviation industry in its various phases may again start the trend upward
What more could we ask of any program of this type than that it help protect us in case of war and help us regain to some extent our economic standard if peace is to be our blessing? With these considerations in mind, it is easier to understand why the Congress of the United States is spending so much money and effort to aid the youth of the nation to realize their glorious ambition-to fly. [ 7 )
Trained is his brain , Trained in the ways Of life.
Slight wisps of knowledge
Serve his lithe thoughts
As one dry match may serve To fire Olympus.
Trained Is his brain, Trained well to carry MY TRUNK, FRESHMAN!
Your name--
Ah, yes, that is to be
A moment I shall not Forget:
The one in which you first Whisper your n a me.
For you must whisper then to me
A name
Which will suffice
To hold, record all beauty
Of this earth ' s ages .
Yes: tell me your name;
For I am A RAT AND I GOTTA PROPOSE!
By BEN
Like petals
Of a soft red rose
Your lips
Hover before my eyes. Your skin, Mellow and soft , Flushed with a melon ' s inner glow, Is near to me . And nearer still Is that fine scent, subtle But great, That scent which wins my soul And, too, wins praise From those Who coyly watch our love
Shimmering through dull life.
And ah-those faces, Rapt and compelling: Compelling us to woo, you beer-soaked RAT.
How well he walks!
As if
The world with all its lo ve, With all its beauty , Were his
He moves with grace and speed
Under the trees:
Trees like great cotton plants, Fluffy white clouds
Being their fruit.
Sweet sounds from Nature's lips
Are all about him
And sharply,
From out of dreamy woodland, Issues one sciund above the rest.
LEMME SEE YUR GARTERS, FRESHMAN!
ROUZIE
Who fights the sea Is brave: Is brave beyond the power Of Neptune's unkempt strokes. A seaman's strokes Are blows against infinity of weight, Against the strength Of heaven Against a power he can but Hear and feel, He rows.
CREW PRACTICE, FRESHMAN!
Like some great lord Of wispy stratus domain He wheels, He soars and climbs From Stygian depths. Gaudy his plumage, His crown Of yet untested merit; Lordly his soul: But deep within his thin canals Of thought, He knows. Ah, yes: he knows. AIR RAID, FRESHMAN!
Slowly he moves, Brooding. His sensitive hand Passes across a brow grown old In six short weeks. His mind
Ascends to search in crevices Of life: in painful crevices Of man's existence, Of man's dour lack Of peace. And then His mind descends To sitON INFINITY, FRESHMAN!
By CAROLYN GARY
TER a summer at the Barter Theatre, I have had friend and foe question me concerning my experiences. In reply to their questions, I have invariably breathed a deep sigh, "It was wonderful" . . . a long pause--dead silence. Whereupon the friends have backed off, a little nonplussed at my strange behavior. When asked to write this article, I found myself even more nonplussed than I had left my friends. What could I say? It is my theory that the theatre itself does not bear too much writing. How then, could I possibly attempt to condense in one article the experiences of a completely filled summer in a theatre? This, then, will of necessity be only an inadequate outline of my summer's activities.
On June 10, I arrived by train at Abingdon, Virginia, thoroughly exhausted and ill from a jerky ride up hills and around mountains. Instead of being met and sent to bed for a short rest, as I had anticipated, I was met and taken to a building at the Barter Theatre where the cast of Roller Shades had been waiting for me for a half hour. They actually seemed a little angry that the train had not arrived earlier. This feeling of anxiety to work, impatience to lose no time in rehearsing a show, was one that was absolutely new to me at the time, but one that I came to respect and share. From that Tuesday until the following Monday night, when we gave a trial showing of the play in Bristol, I went through a period of rehearsing that would amaze any theatre goer, no matter how much a veteran. Morning rehearsals 9: 00 to 12:30. Afternoon rehearsals 1:30 to 5:00. Night rehearsals 7: 30 to 11: 30. And if you don't think that is a bit wearing, just try it yourself sometime. You don't stand off and rehearse a play, you live a play. You eat it all three meals, and you dream it. When your rehearsals are ended at 11: 30 at night, you don't go to bed, because there is always one member of the cast who would "just like to run over that last scene, if you don't mind" and, of course, you don't. All of these exhausting hours are conducive to loss of sweet dispositions and heretofore never forgotten courtesies, but what is far more important they are conducive to good shows, ambition to work that might almost be described as fanatic, and to friendships that are so tested they prove true.
The opening of the show in Abingdon is, of course, the most exciting of the run. Probably , because it is there that the play is viewed by fellowactors-the sharpest critics that an actor ever has to face. An actor never expects to hear glowing tribute from "t he gang" after a job good or bad. But on the other hand, there is no more glowing tribute, no act more likely to make the pulse beat more quickly, the heart do an extra turn, than to have a fellow-player put his hand on your shoulder, and say, "Nice job. I couldn't have done much better myself."
After the three-night-opening at Abingdon, the show then goes on tour. Accent On Youth , the second show of the season that I played, toured altogether for fifteen performances, mainly because there was a small cast, an easy set, and the plot had universal appeal to audiences. We played in exciting places such as the Greenbrier Hotel at White Sulphur Springs, West Virginia; Hollins College at Roanoke; Radford College, and Harrisonburg State Teachers College. We rode up and down and around mountains on a jerky old bus into the mining sections. We played in little high schools and big theatres. One of the members of our cast remarked that it finally got so that every time we saw a red brick building we began to get out our make-up kits. And that was just about true. Several times the truck bearing the sets was late and the set was hardly up in time for the show. One time, the janitor had gone to dinner, and stayed so late that we had to sit out in the back yard and put on our make-up. Sometimes members of the cast were car sick from the hectic rides, or faint from nervous exhaustion, and had to be dressed in order that they might get on the stage in time. But they always did, and they always got through the show-maybe not a great performance, but always a performance. And of such stuff are troupers made!
Most interesting from an educational point of view, and most thrilling from an actor's point of view, was playing in mining towns far out in southwest Virginia, and in West Virginia. I remember the first time that any of us toured into the real center of the mining section. There was a rather large cast for that show, and the whole group was jogging along in the bus, singing old
songs lustily. As we made a complete turn around at night, after playing to an audience like that. the mountain, we suddenly looked down into one He's tired and worn; he faces a 100 mile ride of the saddest, dreariest little towns I have ever "home"; he knows that he won't get back to the seen. The houses, built against the side of the home-base before dawn; he's hungry and can only mountain, were almost visibly falling down; hope that some kind proprietor has kept a hamevery house was painted a dull, dirty grey, set burger joint open for the weary wayfarer. But, against the hard, unyielding rock jutting out of withal, he has a feeling of indescribable happithe mountain. Psychologically, this factor alone ness. It might be compared to the feeling of an was enough to account for the dull, dirty, colorless aviator flying the mails to which Antoine de Saint faces that peered blankly at us as we rode by. Our Exupery alludes in his Wind, Sand And Stars. Or songs froze in our throats, and a strained silence possibly the feeling that a doctor has when he sees fell over the cast. Most of them had probably seen that a very ill patient is going to live because he conditions as bad or worse, but had not realized stood by. Or even the feeling that a child gets that such conditions existed in Virginia . "Sort of when he has saved a small dog's life. I don't depressing , isn't it ?"-Someone finally ventured . know. But it's a good feeling; it's one that says, "If Immediately, I, the only Virginian in the colony, I've brought a little pleasure to those people, I've was assailed on every side. "So this is Virginia?" helped them." And he has-just as surely as if he " Is this where they hide all the Virginians who are had put bread in their mouths, or relieved them of not blue bloods? " I could say nothing. At last, pain. For the maxim of the true actor is not "Art one member spied a house that was not quite so for art's sake," but Art for people's sake Art for dirty , not grey, but a worn white. It had two rooms other people's escape to awareness or happiness. for a family of ten , instead of the usual one. I saw some of those actors and actresses come " Ah! " he exclaimed. "The mayor's residence!" off the stage in tears after giving an inadequate Attention was averted, and I was , temporarily, performance according to their standards, not bespared. What could I say? Perhaps I was more cause they were worried about what people would surprised and troubled than any of the others. All say concerning their acting, but because they felt this may seem to have little to do with my experi- that they had cheated their audience-that they ences in the Barter Theatre. But, aside from the had not done their part by people who had faith satisfaction of having put into words some of the in them . For , I believe essentially that an actor feelin g I have concerning such prevailing con- loves the theatre because he loves people-not as ditions , it may also give a better understanding many actors say that they love everything secondo f the excitement and challenge of playing to ary to the theatre. He loves the theatre because he audiences found in such places. Frequently , many loves the feeling of working with someone, and members of the audience had never seen a play working for someone Most actors have little on the legitimate stage At first, one could feel competitive spirit, and nothing makes one flop them sitting there in dumb amazement. Then, as in a show more quickly than to realize that the they grew interested in the story, they would laugh people in the cast are not pulling with him. Or, at delightedly or cry sympathetically. They were least, so is my belief, derived from one swnmer's wonderful audiences! In several places, where we experiences in the Barter Theatre. There, no matknew that the audiences had particularly enjoyed ter what the personal differences, no matter what the show , we were surprised to find that when we the personal reactions the actors might have to each appeared for curtain calls the audience was sitting other, when the curtain went up, the house lights in dead silence. After three or four appearances faded, and the footlights burst forth in all their of the cast, they would suddenly start applauding glory, on-stage was a group of individuals all strivvigorously, and we realized that they did not know ing together for a whole that they knew would be curtain amenities. They had not known that they finer than any work done by any single one of were supposed to applaud! One lady told us that them . they thought we were going to make speeches. Trouping all night and falling into bed at dawn On any number of occasions, I played an entire may imply that the actor spent most of the day in show with a little two year old child, or maybe bed. But such was not the case. If he was working two or three children, standing right up under the in another play, and most of us were , rehearsals footlights, gazing with awe into the whites of my began at nine-thirty , and anyone not there might eyes. be dragged bodily out of bed. Strangely enough,
I cannot explain the feeling that one gets when this was seldom necessary There is something, he climbs back into that rickety old bus at 12: 30 and here again I search for that indefinable value [ 11]
-there is something in the theatre that nourishes and rests, at the same time that hungers and tires. It's not a business for the too "frail," but you just can't keep a healthy actor down. Usually, there were rehearsals for three shows going on at the same time. Visitors often were greeted by rehearsals on the front porch, and followed by rehearsals in the theatre, front-room, and in the work-shop.
I may have given the impression that one does nothing but rehearse and act in the Barter Theatre. That would be a fallacy. Often, the day was spent making costumes, painting sets, or even making a funeral wreath, as I did for one show. In Edward III , an unusually heavy undertaking, in which almost every member of the colony was included, we of ten sat in rehearsals making our own costumes. Added to these duties, many people were in charge of other phases of the technical end of the production which were man-sized jobs in themselves. I was in charge of jewelry and since eighty people had to be attired in gold furnishings, every minute that I was off-stage I spent surrounded by, and more often immersed in, gallons of ~ilt paint. By the time I got on the stage I looked like something thrown out of a modern art exhibit. But, oh! how that cast was bejewelled! Their hands, wrists, heads, throats, and chests
sparkled incessantly through five acts, until we were never sure whether the tears shed by the audience were caused by emotional strain or just plain, unadulterated eye strain. I suggested to the director that we place a placard on the breast of each actor, saying, "All that glitters is not gold." But he seemed to think that such an act would be the coup de gras.
The season ends at Barter with Festival Week. This is a Barterite's nearest approach to repertory, since at this time a different play is done each night. These plays are repetitions of the best plays done throughout the summer, and in spite of the natural fears of forgotten lines, and saying the wrong lines in the wrong play, a few hurried rehearsals always revive the play enough for a successful performance. Visitors from all over the state, and many other states are present for the entire week, and the season ends in a heightened state of the factors that have made the summer -excitement, thrills, hard work, and fun!
Oh yes! Did we really and truly get food in place of tickets to the plays? We did! Two pigs one night! Wormy apples every night-and cabbage , and potatoes. And did we really eat what they brought? We did. Every day! Three times a day!
Believe me I thought it would be nothing more
Than another glance-a wave of hand, and then, Chance meetings-but not this surge
Of swift wild joy at sight of you-and pain. One day I saw the trees against a bleak, grey sky And then a beam of light across the clouds
On a green field-in tender, mellow tintAnd so-just so-your gentle hand in swift caress Brought forth my feelings to a swelling tide.
KIRA NICHOLSKY
7'a.lnt
I(By ARTHUR L. JONES
EN leaned forward over the edge of the gal- Kenny remembered way back to the time when lery. His soft full lips smiled and his bash- bis mother dragged him out of the corner lot to fol eyes glistened. With a tight grip on the practice his music. The neighborhood gang markpipe railing, be watched her. His eyes followed ed him for a sissy and from then on he was exher every movement. eluded from all their "goings on."
Her deep mellow voice touched his heart. Once The time had come when he no longer desired while Merene Benner, lead in the stock company , to be accepted among the boys of his age. He was saying her lines, Shelia stole a quick glance cynically looked down on them and steered his over the footlights. Ken prayed she would look path as far away from theirs as he could. Solitude up in his direction , but her dark eyes flashed over had brought shyness and shyness had made him the theater, never stopping. practically a recluse.
Perspiration stood out on his narrow face Kenny dug down in his shabby, creasdess brown
When the final curtain came down, Kenny sat trousers and jingled the few coins he had. He back in his seat and stared vacantly at the drab assumed a careless air which he felt certain added canvas. His foot rested against the dirty, black a couple of years to his appearance. boards before him. Clearly he could picture just Crossing the street, he took up a position closer what Shelia was doing back there. She would be to the stage door. talking to that smooth Ronny Demmel, or rushing ' 'I'll go up and say something to her," he lied to back to her dressing room, in a hurry to meet some himself. "Why shouldn't I?" Ken argued. "Plenty one of the numerous men who were always on of other people must. There's no reason why I hand to entertain good looking actresses. shouldn't."
Running his slim fingers through his curly brown But there was a reason and he knew it, although hair, Ken followed the last patron out of the exit. he refused to admit it. Shelia Sherwood held his Heat of this late spring day beat up from the pave- heart. He loved her and he couldn't help it. "Of ments. Buses roared and fumed. Horns blew. course, I don ' t love her. What could be sillier? People hurried up and down the street past him . She's beautiful, popular. And a lot older than
Slowly Kenny crossed the side street, wiping me. Well, not a whole lot, but some. And even the moisture off his heavy glasses. His per- if I had a date with her. . . . " Kenny paused in spiry shirt stuck to his back and he hunched his his thoughts. Could he ever have a date with her? shoulders to loosen it. He was just average size, Certainly not before he asked her. "Ask Shelia neither tall nor short, fat nor skinny. He wasn't Sherwood for a date? Me?" He smiled gloomily particularly good looking and hadn't developed at the mere idea. any muscles. People passed him up without a Stopping a fe\lv yards from the door, Kenny glance. watched. Various members of the company came
Stationing himself where he could see the stage out , but not Shelia. door, he settled down for his wait. Sooner or later Suddenly there she was. He saw her slip through Shelia would come out of there, and he gladly the door, arm in arm with Ronny Demmel. Her waited for that moment, just as he had done the brown hair flowed from under a pert red hat and day before and the day before that. brushed the top of her shoulders. A smile light-
Ever since the first time Kenny had seen Shelia , ened her regular but largish features. Black eyes last Tuesday a week ago, his mind had been con- glanced at Kenny but saw nothing. tinually filled with thoughts of her. To meet her She and Ronny went off the other way and behad been and was his main objective, but deep fore he knew it, Shelia ' s gray skirt and blue jacket down in his heart he knew that would never hap- were disappearing in the crowd on the other side pen. He wasn't like that. True, she was three, of the thoroughfare. Her gay laughter still soundpossibly four years older than his own eighteen ed in his ears. Her smile was before his eyes. years, but if he had been somebody else, like Bob Trudging towards the corner of Main and Conn , say, he would have at least spoken to her. Water Streets to catch his bus, Kenny argued with [ 13]
himself. ''I've got to meet her. I've got to." But the inevitable question flashed in his mind . "How? How? If l could only meet her alone. " He bumped against a tawny bootblack and unconsciously shoved up against a paper boy. Shelia loomed before him and all else was nothing.
Sleep didn ' t come to Kenny that night. Every sight of Shelia upset him. His love for her increased with every glance of her. His ignorance of girls enabled him to hang on his hazy framework of Shelia all of the virtues and traits he wanted her to have.
Ao occasional glimpse and seeing her in the plays told Kenny nothing of what she was really like.
But she was alive and she had to be like something. Never thinking that he might be wrong, Kenny made her what he wanted her to be.
She was jolly and always full of fun and gaiety; never silent and gloomy like he was. She dared anything for fun - wasn't in the least cautious. She liked money and the things it bought , but most of all she liked a passionate love affair - a love affair such as Kenny dreamed about after reading of beautiful women and gallant men in the magazmes
For all that, Kenny couldn't brin g himself to meeting her. Her very personality built a barrier around her that his shyness kept him from piercmg.
To be on intimate terms with her, to be loved by her as he loved her, Kenny would give anything. To see her when he could , to attend her performances , and to think of her was his life. All else was secondary and unimportant.
The following night he huddled in a doorway near the stage entrance of the Bijou. He made his mind up definitely to speak to her tonight. He wouldn't back out.
He pulled his foot into the narrow margin of dry doorway so the dripping rain wouldn ' t spatter his shoes. The light on the corner streamed through the slitted fire-escape, down on Kenny's sensitive face. His large lips and high forehead stood out in the shadows.
A few cars went up and down the dark, reflecting street and even fewer pedestrians passed his doorway. Before the rain started the park on the other side of the thoroughfare had teemed with people, but now it was empty except for an occasional person , hurrying along under the protection of leafy branches.
Kenny settled himself more comfortably into the sharp corner. Over the tops of the trees he could see the distant signs atop hotels. The soft patter of the rain soothed and reassured him. He
felt pleased. A long wait was before him, almost two hours , but he didn ' t mind.
He ligh~ed a cigarette. Smoking made him feel older - closer to Shelia's age. He pulled in a big drag and let it out. Blowing the smoke through his nose, Kenny felt exhilarant. He tried to flaunt the cigarette the way other fellows did. When he talked to her he'd be careful not to turn sideways so she couldn't see his profile. His nose. That bothered him more than anything else. It was too long , like part of his chin had been used to make his nose.
Ouch. The cigarette had slipped down and burned his fingers. His added years drifted away and be nursed his finger with a sympathizin g tongue.
Somebody slouched by outside and Kenny drew back instinctively He watched the stranger as he walked down the sidewalk , splashing through puddles that turned red, amber, and green obedient to a nearby traffic light.
What was he going to do after he met her? He didn't have enough money to entertain a girl like that.
Well , he couldn't worry about taking her out , not now. It was going to be hard enough meeting her. Boy, she was beautiful. Dark hair and black eyes. And what a figure. You didn't see girls like her everyday.
People started coming out of the theater. He wished Shelia would hurry up No, maybe if she didn't come out until late, she would be alone. What should he do? Ask her for her autograph? That would put him in the position of a fan; not at all what he wanted to be. Could he act " sporty" enough? Maybe he would walk by as if meeting her was just an accident and say, " Why, I believe it's Shelia Sherwood. " Then she would stop and he could start a conversation - about the parts she played, of course.
More than anything else he hoped that she would come out alone. But be knew that she wouldn ' t. She probably already had a date to g o to some night club.
A boy and a girl came out. He recognized Frankie Mil tan and Gregoria West. They must be going somewhere together. Arm in arm they passed him without a glance.
Kenny was becoming more and more nervous. His long fingers tapped against the wall. Now the moment was approaching , he was losing his nerve.
Then it happened. Shelia was standing just outside of the doorway. She seemed to have appeared there like a vision. Her flat white hat and
Today b , more th ecau Ch an ever I se esterfield ' peop e are tak. smoking. you s concentrates on th . mg to Chesterfield pleasant. You 1·mhoke Chesterfields de important things . t ig t one f an find h in er. you bu a ter anoth t em cool d ~:•ck after pack, and :;;:~:hey really taste ::t.
Make vourr,complete smokin 01 definitely milde f • u, g saf1sfactio r. you can't I, n next poCk uy a befler cigarefle
white dress made her look darker than usual. Kenny's heart leaped. He tingled all over.
Stumbling over his feet , he started towards the stage door. He tried to look calm and nonchalant , but he knew he wasn't. She hadn't noticed him. She was searching in her purse for something. Then his heart fell - his balloon had been pricked and all the air escaped. Davis , the director, joined Shelia.
Davis spoke to her and Shelia smiled up at him. That smile made Ken waver, but he kept on walking, slowly now. What should he do? Could he speak to her? No he couldn't. His courage had left him completely. If Davis hadn ' t appeared, everything would have been all right. He couldn ' t turn around; he would have to pass then,. Instinctively he moved to the outside of the sidewalk.
Just as he got abreast of them, Davis spoke.
"Got a match , Bo? "
Kenny turned to see Shelia and Davis looking at him. He gulped.
"Me? Sure."
He hurried over to Davis and handed him the folder of matches. Davis struck one and held it for Shelia. He stared up as Shelia gracefully bent forward to the flame. The arch of her neck was beautiful. The flare of the match cast shadows on her face that made her more ravishing than ever. Kenny caught his breath. He smelled the sweet scent of her powder. Her beauty overwhelmed him completely.
Now was the time. He could meet her now if he just said what he had planned.
Kenny opened his mouth but nothing came out. The words wouldn ' t form. He continued to stand there as in a trance.
Turning to him , Shelia smiled her appreciation, looking him full in the face . That smile turned an orderly retreat into a wild scramble. Trembling in every limb, he almost ran away from the spot.
Kenny neither stopped nor looked back. Reaching the corner , he turned up Twenty-eighth Street and entered the first drug store.
" Coca-Cola, please," he ordered.
Kenny slumped in his seat. He couldn ' t understand how the closeness of Shelia had done this to him . His courage had disappeared like chaff before the wind, and his confusion had mounted like a flame
" What a fool," he told himself. " The one chance and I muffed it. "
He took a swallow of the drink and stared clown at the counter.
The little pools of water and splotches of syrup on the counter changed to the heavenly smile that Shelia had beamed at him. He almost smiled back at the vision.
Someone slid into the seat next to him. Annoyed at the interruption, he swallowed the remainder of the drink and rose to leave
He glanced at the person in the next seat. His heart stopped. Shelia! And by herself.
She was saying something to him. "You forgot your matches , Buddy." Extending her hand, she handed him the folder. " Want a smoke? Aw, come on. Don't you want to make a girl welco me in your own town?"
By PAUL SAUNIER, JR.
KN THE DAYS of my reckless youth, spent between the magazine stand and the pinball machine in Roxy's, I used to be confronted by Temptation in the concentrated form of Cap'n Billy's Whi z -Bang, a compact little journal familiar , I am sure , to all my readers At one time my perusal of Street and Smith ' s contribution to American literature had been confined to pop -eyed readings of Th e B ig Western and G-8 and His Battle Ac es, but at the crucial period to which I am referring the Whi z -Bang held complete sway. I can dimly remember , however, a large collection of gailycolored rough-paper magazines composing the back of the throne upon which Cap ' n Billy sat, but which I had never gotten around to inspecting. The Whi z -Bang was always right at the front, and my hand never got past it.
In recent years, marked by my graduation to the N ew Yorke r, I have been oppressed by the haunting fear that I might have missed something by not looking into those gaudy publications when I had the chance. I was reflecting upon this tragedy one recent day, while waiting at Seventh and Broad for the proverbial street car, when a sudden wave of determination completely overcame me. Throwing caution to the winds, and dropping my transfer, I let the car go by in order to investigate the "pulp" section of the nearest newsstand, which happened to be about forty feet away. This stand, incidentally, is run by a woman very suspicious of tall young men who copy down the titles of her stock, particularly if these young men end up by buying four at a time
In one section of this stand, decently removed from Bett er Homes and Gardens and Parents Magazine , I found Sweetheart Stories, Popular Love , Love Short Stories, and Rangeland Sweethearts, a new number where " you'll find gripping, thrilling, poignant stories of girls who court adventure far from the confining cobwebs of civilization." Shaking the cobwebs from my eyes, I thumbed, with increasing nervousness, Strange Stories, Amazing Stories, Fantastic Stories, Startling Stories, Astonishing Stories, and heavens to Betsy, Horror Stories! Human criminals, I noticed with some relief, were getting their just due, because if any slipped by Thrilling Detective, The Phantom Detective, or G-Man Detective, they were shot cats when they came up against Super
Detective. Three unofficial foes of crime who are now romping through the underworld at half a cent a word are The Wizard, The Shadow, and The Whisperer. Such unfamiliar ground was making me uneasy, so, just to bring back memories, I took a shy look at my old friend, G -8 and His Battle Aces. Dear old G -8, I compute, has by now shot down at least three times as many planes as Germany ever built, while the Rio Kid Western is raising hell with the Indians at the same rate. This convinced me that as long as Street and Smith are permitted to function, we need have no fear of the international situation. I believe as firmly now as ever that any invader who chanced to get by G-8 would have to pull up short when he came face to face with the Rio Kid.
My flight of fancy was brought to an abrupt halt, however, by discovery of the prosaic title How To Build Twenty Boats neatly sandwiched between two copies of South Sea Stories. Thus disillusioned, I coldly selected four of the publications for home consumption, paid the suspicious woman 40c, and hied me off to the street car, Strange Stories and The Whisperer under my arm and Popular Love and Rangeland Romances hidden in my brief case.
Safe at home, I read them all carefully. Let me first describe Strange Stories, published by Better Publications, Incorporated, of New York. From the character of the stories between its covers, I hope I am never forced to read Astonishing Stories or Startling Stories. If the tales I read here are merely strange, God knows what the others will bring. The cover of my issue of Strange Stories shows a justifiably horror-stricken girl besieged on all sides by grinning skulls and fleshless hands. If the individuals surrounding her were all consistently attired I would be much happier, but the sight of grinning skeletons, some with eyeballs in their skulls, and some without, or with only one, makes me somewhat nervous. There seems to be no set skeleton style in Strange Stories. One of the hands has a few shreds of flesh clinging to it like a worn -out sock, a fact which bothers me no less than it does the girl at whom the index finger is pointed. For t unately, no story in the magazine calls for this illustration, the picture evidently being a come-on for the bloodsucking trade.
[ 17]
The lead story is, I am sorry to report, written by August Derleth, who once wrote a very beautiful short story, Goodbye Margery. This time August conceives a story about some big fleshy blobs who wander out of Lake Michigan at night in order to digest policemen and other stragglers along the shore. These beings, who bleed green and are conveniently described as "shapeless," are finally cornered by good-luck charms prescribed in Latin by a medieval monk. August Jr. evidently needs shoes.
The real gem in this little magazine is, however, found in the story , "Be Yourself," which deals with a man who imagines he is two people. I regret that I am forced to state the plot so bluntly, but there it is. The brilliance of this particular piece of literature does not arise from the plot , but rather from the writing. In the following paragraph Eddie Thompson is getting playful with Mrs. F . Thatcher Van Archer:
And casting dignity to the winds, Ed d ie Thompson crawled up on the di ni n g room table a nd l ay th ere, putt i ng his arms arozmd the sta rtled woman's n e ck, and kissi n g h er most violently, without impediment of be ard. H e h adn' t kiss ed a woman without his b eard for ten years, a nd Mai z i e h ad not been k i ss ed by a beardless m an in that time. Both of th em found it a definit ely pl easant experience.
Finding such a piece de r esistance on the diningroom table and being without his whiskers at the same time is evidently too much for Eddie Thompson, and puts him fast on the downward road. His whiskerless condition appeals to Maizie, too, and their passion, relieved as it is of all impedimenta, would undoubtedly have developed into something more serious had not F. Thatcher Van Archer appeared on the scene:
" What g o es o n her e ?" snapp ed the e minent a uthor , ent ering th e room.
Thatcher, being a fine, upstanding, Christian author, is of coursed piqued to find his wife on the dining-room table with another man, particularly one sans whiskers.
Eddi e Thompson got off the table so quickly he broke thre e dishes. He stood up with s ome d ign ity and wiped a piece of toast from t he s eat of his pants.
I can understand Eddie ' s haste , although I do not understand what a three-dish man can do in terms of seconds, but wiping a piece of toast from the seat of one's pants with any semblance of
dignity is too much for even a non-whiskered man like Eddie.
"Mai z ie got something in her eye," he hurriedly explained. "I was just trying to work it out for her.''
Eddie is resourceful, but to no avail.
"Thr ot1g h her mouth , I should suppose ," observed Van / lrcher. " Maizie , will you please wipe th at butter off your elbow and get my briefcase? I'll be late."
Thatcher is an evident artist at the Snappy Comeback , although as a husband he does not seem to have his mind on his work. I do hate to leave the story here, but the conversation which follows is even more unreal than that which has just occurred. Suffice it to say that it all ends up moral and legal, as the saying goes , since F. Thatcher and Eddie are one and the same but don't know it. If this seems confusing , just shave off your whiskers, get up on the dining-room table , and settle it for yourself.
This last story is not typical of the subject matter of Strang e St ori es, which generally runs to ghouls who digest humans , but it is typical of some of the writing.
The cover of R an gela n d Sw eeth ear ts, a gift to the ladies published by Fictioneers , Incorporated, is somewhat more intriguing than that of Str an ge Stori es. Here we find a golden-haired girl ardently kissing a cowboy who is dressed in the approved Western style . This cowboy , however, has both hands in the air , and is holding in one of them what appears to be a gold brick tied with red ribbon. The girl's left arm is around the cowboy ' s neck , while her ri g ht hand , coyly enou g h , is holding a six-shooter in his belly. Two stories printed within are advertised on the cover: "The Angel and the Badman, a novel of Western love by Art Lawson, " and " Cowmen ' s Kisses Are Sweetest, an Isabel S. Way Novelet. "
"The Angel and the Badman " is a saga of a cowgirl named, of all things, Virgie. She tames a bad, bad man after several kiss-and -run encounters which leave the average seventh-grader's heart beating wildly. The climax comes when she says, tenderly, " You're my man." They are on one horse at the time, but the ensuing clinch is so bonerending that , to quote the author , " his horse, frightened under the double load, could not buck them apart." Wow!
" Cowmen's Kisses Are Sweetest" has just about the same plot, but the clinch winds up with a different metaphor. This time, his " kiss was white fire on her lips ... welding them together, body,
[ 18]
mind, and soul." This gives me an excellent idea for a new Publication, Boilermaker Beaus.
Another story, "Cabin for Two," includes a drought in the plan of good man versus bad , and has a rather nautical description of "joy surging in a warm tide over her" when young brawn and muscle takes its own. The same dribble carries through the story which closes the book, "Cupid Wears a Gunbelt." Here love at first sight sets in with such a will that not until after a clinch worthy of the climax of a lesser story does the hero stop to ask, "Are you gonna live here?"
I will not go into Popular Love and The Whisper er other than to say that the same fine writing which characterizes the first two magazines is carried on in the second two. The Whisperer fights his way out of "a maze of arms, legs and bludgeons," with no trouble at all, while in Popular Lo1Je , the tides still rip, and the welders still weld,
although Packards , instead of horses, do the unsuccessful bucking.
I've often wondered just what type of people read these magazines as a general practice, and now, after careful thought, I know. I have great faith in advertising as an indication of reader type , since no self-respecting advertiser is going to fork over unless he gets results. As a consequence, I now know that the average reader of these "pulps" wants to be a United States Postal Clerk, Learn Drafting, Jump His Pay from $18 to $50 ra Week, is Ruptured, has Piles, has Itch, Eczema, Ill-Fitting False Teeth, wants to be a Fingerprint Expert, has Stomach Ulcers, and Never Knew A Musical Instrument Was So Easy To Play.
How did they get that way? It's just a vicious circle. If ever I read Strange Stories again I'll deserve Stomach Ulcers. And when I even think of Horror Stories, I can feel the D.T.'s setting in.
Day was dancing softly, slowly
To the wind's low lullabies
When he saw the Night approaching From the darkening eastern skies.
Night was dancing on her tiptoes
Clad in skirts of blue brocade, Softly humming melodies of Some forgotten serenade.
Day wa s struck with all her beauty
And by her air of warm romance, So he whispered to her, sweetly, An invitation to the dance.
Night consented, so they danced
A Waltz with careful measured stride; Thus they formed, together dancing, Shadows of the eventide.
MIL TON FRIEDENBERG
[ 19]
A fraternity man reveals the rushing system
THIS article is not an attempt to slander or debase any one fraternity or any group of fraternities. It is, rather, an attempt to tell the story of what goes on behind the scenes in a typical Richmond College brotherhood during the quest for pledges. It is a story of intense but, nevertheless, friendly rivalry as full of drama and excitement as any mystery novel.
It all starts with a letter that the rushing chairman receives during the summer from some alumnus or fraternity brother. The letter states that recently he, the alumnus or brother, while at a dance (poker game, or picnic) met a person whose brother had met a girl whose third cousin had said, about two years previously, that he might possibly go to the University of Richmond if he did not go some place else. This the rushing chairman snaps up avidly, for it constitutes a "lead" on the boy and may gain the fraternity an inside track with him if he comes to school.
Immediately, the rushing chairman swings into action. He consults a list of prospective freshmen that he has secured from the Dean's office, and makes certain that the boy is coming to school. If the boy is from out of town, he rapidly sends carefully prepared letters to all active and inactive members of the fraternity who live within sixty miles of the prospect advising them to contact the prospect immediately or if this is impossible, to get some information regarding him as to his personality, intelligence, looks, appearance, athletic ability, and interests. The chairman may then write the boy a letter welcoming him to the school; this is an attempt to create goodwill between the prospect and the fraternity. If the prospect lives in town a different approach is used. Members of the fraternity will visit him at his home and will try to strike up a friendship with the boy by advising what classes to take, what activities to participate in, and the like. They end up by inviting him to a summer fraternity social function.
Soon reports on prospects start filtering in. These are carefully worked over as the rushing chairman and his aides select those boys who, they feel, will fit in with the men in the fraternity, the rest they discard.
[ 20]
At last Orientation Week begins. This is the test of the organization and aggressiveness of the fraternity. This is the home stretch-the final drive. This is the test of the skill and cleverness of the fraternity's leaders.
The lists have been checked and double checked and have been filed in a convenient place. Freshmen have been assigned to fraternity members who will have to contact them and date them. Sophomores have been intrusted to follow the rushing rules absolutely. Juniors have been told how to get around them. Seniors have approved all of this.
The fraternity knows what men it wants; all it has to do now is to make those men want it-in two short weeks.
On Monday the work begins in earnest. The fraternity men take freshmen to and from school. Every prospect they see, they drag off to some little-frequented place and there they glorify their organization.
They introduce the prospect to illustrious alumni and show him charts that prove that the fraternity is second to none on the campus. They advise him regarding courses, they help him make out his schedule cards, they play pingpong, cards, etc. with him until he is practically a nervous wreck. And then they invite him to rush dances, where he spends a hot evening listening to a variety of girls extol the virtues of the fraternity and the boys in it.
They contact him after he finishes breakfast and they stick with him until in the wee small hours of the morning he goes to bed. They snag him as he emerges from the Playhouse after a freshman meeting and drag him off by the scruff of his neck. They leap upon him when he leaves a class and galantly escort him upstairs or downstairs to where his next class is-just to see that he isn't harassed by any other upperclassmen.
It is unfortunate for him if he is one of those odd people that want to study or sleep when his classes are over. He hasn't a chance. As soon as his recitations are finished he is whisked off to a moving picture or something and is brought back in time to bolt a mouthful of food. Then he is
(Continued on page 28)
In the combined voices of several freshmen
HAND-SHAKING, back-slapping, and pigs' tongues made into lines of silk: that's what the fraternity rushing season has been said to contain. At meals all kinds of stories have been passed around with the dishes. Students have helped themselves to them as they would to food: they took what they wanted-rejected the rest. They took the stories that were savory to them; some took the dirty stories and some took the clean ones.
I heard those stories, of course, with the rest of the freshmen who were being rushed. I heard that one fraternity-one that was rushing me-traditionally enveigled their rushees, one by one, into a closet where they turned on the heat. They turned it on literally, too. The story had it that they blew smoke, thick smoke from rum-soaked Italian cigars, into the tender face of the rushee. Too, they had brilliant lights and no water in the room. All it lacked, according to the tale, was an old horned man in red flannels with a posteria proboscis and a pitchfork. It was scary.
Another story whispered that a popular house fraternity talked down their monthly dues in high-pressure style but hit their alumni for all kinds of money. Rushees would do well, the story teller said, to steer clear of that fraternity. They would never be able to call their pockets their own again if they pledged, because the long arm of Alpha Seltzer Phiz would always be pushing its fingers into their pockets.
Stories like these were lurking about the wise gums of some upperclassmen ready to be released into the ears of unwary rushees. And many of the freshmen took them seriously. However, a close friend of mine had been through all that and knew just about everybody's way around in the whole uncertain mess. His ounce of confidential prevention made my pound of cure unnecessary, and I didn't believe every story I heard or even every third story.
My rushing proved to be very honest. It began when two fraternity men visited me and offered to help me make out a tentative schedule, a schedule which would give me the subjects I wanted, when I wanted them, and under the professors that their experience had revealed to be the best. They didn't
stand in one corner of the room and shoot their opinions of the professors at me. Instead they analyzed the teaching styles of the men and left the choice up to me. They were acquaintances of mine, and I thought nothing of their visits. I was grateful, of course, but until they invited me to a rush dance I hadn't thought about the rushing part of it. I was that naive.
They were honest about t'he whole thing, though. They told me that their fraternity had decided to rush me, which made me feel elated, and then they left. There was no flowery rush talk, no running down of other fraternities, no flattery. In fact, I didn't hear any fraternity "run down" during the whole rushing season.
That was how my rushing began. I didn't profit a great deal by it, because my wretched memory prompted me to leave the schedule at home on the day of matriculation; but I was nonetheless grateful for the help.
That fraternity was closest to my heart, its members closest to my ear, than any other on matriculation day. I lacked, along with my full capacity of wits and my tentative schedule, a necessary utensil: my fountain pen. I didn't lack one for long, though. The good old rushers were right on the job, and I borrowed that pen at least a half dozen times. They told me where to go and when, what to do after I got there, and what would probably happen to me and my little stack of white cards. They didn't dictate. They just helped me whenever I needed help, and because of that I was one of the first to finish matriculating.
When I had finished, they invited me over to the house. There they played the phonograph records I like: hot and noncommercial. They shook my hand with the gusto of a footballweather breeze. They played ping pong with me and played it straight. They flattered me a little, and I recognized it as flattery, but just the same I liked it. They talked about things I like: sports and writing and music. And there was an underlying harmony of fellowship, carefree and serious, that I liked. That was the first fraternity.
The second apparently hadn't planned to rush me. I met one of them the day I matriculated, and
(Continued on page 27)
THEYSAY 11,,etJearlOleA/c,t
By KITTY CRAWFORD
(EDITOR'SNoTE: To be read aloud if possible.)
Steeple's Hill is that old, half-forgotten part of the city pressed on the one side by the arrogant and shining commercial district, and on the other by the slow sullen swell of the muddy river. Washed high ·upon the shores of tradition by the receding tides of progress, it is a network of silent streets arched by the naked lindens which line their sides. The bricks of the walks are worn with the tread of time, and the scent of old roses is still fragrant in the tang of Indian summer. Behind high walls whose mouldy stones conceal heavy-headed chrysanthemums and old houses dozing in senility with shuttered eyes, there are faded gardens to tell of memories, old trees throwing their last sudden colors across the hoary walks and tall iron gates, ivy thick with years, brooding silences
At the end of the street stood Miss Emily's house; its walls were the highest, its stones the mouldiest, its chrysanthemums the heaviest. There were more trees in the garden, more scroll-work on the tall irongates; but the old house stood sad and silent. Miss Emily was almost dead.
So slight and small she seemed, a tiny quiver of breath, a hesitation beneath the counterpane in the great feather bed, her transparent hands white even against the whiteness of the cover, the fine mold of her face calm against the pillow. The silver weight of years was soft on her hair.
Time had blurred the contours of the room, tim e and the images of the past and suddenly the room was full of gay young girls, and laughter and excitement, and the music from below floated up the staircase Colors, sounds: the scrape of a fiddle, the glide of dancing couples; bright dresses, scarlet and gold and green, hoops against the grey of the uniforms; the swish and rustle of taffeta and mousseline; snatches of song and a high-pitched laugh, "Dixie." The wedding
dress, clouds of veil over dark wide eyes, the sudden hush and the indrawn breath; the staircase, creamy white carpeted with midnight blue, and sweeping away at the foot to an arc banked with flowers; her father's eyes, her mother's tremulous smile; the ring; the kiss, hours of heaven sealed into a touch Cary. And after all that, Cary . . . There was no heaven, no earth, no bliss nor sadness that could touch her now, in her world of infinite good and beauty and eternity. The world held them and knew them; yet they were not of it, nor in it. They stood apart, like spirits, removed from the world, he and she, with the earth for his footstool and the stars for her hair, in silence and aloneness
And then-
Emily was in her bedroom when the news came, Dinah panting up the steps to bear it; but a bugle had preceded her, and the faraway tramp of men marching, men marching again. How pointless to make conversation for these last hours, thought Emily; Cary and I sit on the edge of grandfather's well and listen to the little pebbles plink, plunk! down below. Our words are little pebbles bouncing in a well, a well that has no bottom and no ending. And so he goes, in the long dawn, with his grey so beautiful in the sunshine, and the black flanks of the horses gleaming dully, like sunshine glinting on the barrel of a gun, or on the metal buttons of his uniform. And the hoofbeats in the early morning, clattering on the cobbles, clattering away into the sunrise, the sound beaten down into silence by distance and the heavy summer air.
Silence and silence, broken now by the clear mourning note of a bugle wafted across an open grave on a high hill; and now by the muted cries of suffering; and again by the onward push of years. Silence, disturbed only slightly in the old house by the roar and rush of progress, or the upward thrust of humanity, or the forward sweep
[ 23]
of civilization. The years made no sound as they threaded their relentless way through the network of silent streets, or beneath the arches of the lindens, now shadowing, now bare. They left mold on the bricks of the house, and the ivy grew thick on the walls; they left veils across the eyes and silver on the hair, but they never reached the heart.
Miss Emily was almost dead. The days had rolled their tides up to the high walls of her house, and the moss had grown thicker, the lindens taller, but the years had finally washed over the frail girl who had toasted Lee's youngsters, with the light of a dead cause shining in their gallant eyes, proud with the pride of Jackson in the Valley, Pickett at Gettysburg, Lee at Appomattox; who had borne with innate graciousness Grant's blue hordes; who had waved a tremulous farewell to the boys of the New War; and who had lived all her days full of memories and heartaches and tears, with a heart full of the songs of a forgotten land and a long-lost people, of a peaceful pattern of life that is gone, of a tradition and a heritage which linger now only in the breath of a magnolia, or the sudden sound of a darky's spiritual, or in the hearts of the dying. . . .
To make a life the years march around in a circle, and bind in that life with a silver cord, and when the last link is forged, and the task complete, Time must pause for a priceless moment. And before the years hand forward to another world the life which they have made, there is a breath of eternity between the Now and the After-now when the Li£e can speak, and can hear the answer to its greatest wish:
I have been waiting for this moment a long time, thought Emily; and I've been lying here such a long time! How clean the room looks; and the trees in the garden-I hadn't remembered how tall they were growing. The air-so clear and crisp; it's so good to breath in, deep and deep. Listen! I believe I can hear the cannon down at Seven Pines: so close! And there's another, answering, thundering even closer; it must be Longstreet's, along the river bank. They really shake the lindens in the street. And the staircase looks so creamy; somehow I'd forgotten it was like a mag-
nolia petal. The house-it's so still and quiet, hushed-waiting? as though something hung over it, waiting Listen! Was that cannon again? Too close, too close; it's like marching men, like the tramp of soldiers in the street, around the corner, coming this way. Open the door! Open the door! I must see the men, I must see the soldiers! I know Cary is there, Cary is marching with his men, Cary is coming home . . . Cold! It's so cold out here-and something brushed me. . . .
Now the gate, and the latch-and the soldiers! oh, the beauty of them, so straight and tall and young! so young! How brave they look, marching together step by step, proud and stern, shoulder to shoulder Pale. They are pale and stern and sad. And their eyes-their eyes! ! God, why don't they look at me--at something - at someone! Their eyes! Blank, staring, staring. Why do they look like that? What have they seen? . . . and the mouth, drawn tight, straight . . . and the walk, the hands. . . . I have seen this man before-and this one--and this! There is no cliff erence between them! They are all alike! They are all one man! the same eyes, the mouth, the same walk, the hands, the march there is no Cary, nor John, nor Alfred nor Thomas nor William -they are all one man! One youth, one soldier, one death. . . . Still they come, more and more and more. Men marching away to slaughter and destruction and death, from the Old World and the New, from the past and from the present and from the future. And now they are all-like this! They are the same man! One soldier, marching eternally, over and over, into the sunset. . . . Can they march so forever? Must they march so for always? Sons and husbands and fathers and brothers they are all one! Can't somebody stop this marching!
Down the worn streets arched by the naked lindens, past the old bricks and the high walls and the shuttered house, the columns came, khaki waves of olive-drab, fine, proud faces, strong young bodies, clear eager eyes. . . . They marched quickly, laughing, head up, chest out, shoulders high, the infantry, the cavalry-sons and fathers and husbands and brothers! Column left , march! March down the street, around the corner and over the cobbles and on on on March into the glare of the sunset.
24]
The American Presidency: An Interpretation. By Harold J.Laski, New York: Harper & Brothers, $2.50.
'Yho is to be selected the next president of the Urnted States? Nobody can answer this question but everyone knows who will choose him.
It is the people of this republic who will select their next president. It is up to them and them a~~ne to make one of the most far-reaching deos1ons that men have ever made. Are Americans ready to make this choice? Do they know what the man they choose must do? Are they aware of the qualities he must incarnate? The answer of the majority of Americans is indubitably, "No."
The men and women of this land have often been told that they are the best-informed people of the earth. In one phase of this knowledge they are sadly lacking and that is in a clear understanding of the American system of government. At this time nothing is so important as an understanding of the office of the chief executive.
Strange it is that to a great extent this understanding should be brought by a Britisher, but such is the case. Harold J.Laski, who is a professor of the University of London, has made this the central theme of his latest and most readable work, The American Presidency: An Interpretation. The book is one of the finest criticisms of American institutions ever written by an Englishman. Mr. Laskie's long years of study and acquaintanceship with America and Americans were the only things which could have made the book possible. Anyone without his varied background could not have written such a colorful complete ' and yet disinterested study of the American presidency.
Several of the important issues of the question discussed, such as the president in wartime, are sidestepped, but in the president's relationships to Congress, the cabinet, the people, and foreign affairs the book is illuminating as well as novel in its approach.
The primary contention which Mr. Laski puts forth is that America needs a stronger, more power-
ful p_resid_ency.He says, however, "that the changes required m the United States are likely to be produced less by direct constitutional innovations" than simply by the pressure and demands of the m?dern world. "The modern state requires disciplmed leadership." The present American system falls far short of the needs of a powerful democracy in a world of chaos.
Mr. Laski believes that the cabinet should become more important in the ruling of the nation. The broad outlines of all American policy should be delegated to a larger group. The crying need throughout the present "checked and balanced" system is for a small body to initiate legislation, Mr. Laski contends. Neither the president nor Congress at present fulfills this all important task which is handled in England by the Prime Minister and his cabinet. A more important and more carefully selected cabinet would provide a training ground, so to speak, for future presidents. In this :"ay an~ther of the big faults of the present plan, mexpenenced candidates, would be overcome.
The book is a beautiful tribute to the American system as a whole. Mr. Laski says that no democratic nation has so efficiently handled its foreign affairs. He says that no where else have men of such high calibre been selected for executive leadership. It is claimed that no where is public opinion so powerful or so per£ ect in its choices. Eleven presidents were called exceptional. And yet as Mr. Laski points out, there are still great faults evident in our plan of government.
The book is wonderfully readable considering the subject matter involved. It contains many new and thought-producing ideas. It is a real challenge to America to perfect its government.
Mr. Laski closes with these statements: "Lincoln's brief utterance at Gettysburg has transcended all national boundaries; and wherever a civilized tradition remains, its echo still lives in the minds and hearts of men. So, with great leadership in the president, it can continue to be with the American nation. If their problems are immense, so also is their promise. Their resources
[ 25}
are still vast. They are an experimental people, restless, alert, energetic, in a degree that is rich with hope. They confront new issues in a setting far different from any that could have been conceived by the fifty-five men who gathered together in that summer of 1787 in Philadelphia A nation that wills to be free must see its traditions not as chains but as opportunities . To live creatively, it must discipline itself to trust, in the grand manner, the leaders of its choice. Great power alone makes great leadership possible; it provides the unique chance of restoring America to its people."
JOHN DECKER.
Flowering Judas and Other Stories. By Katherine Anne
Porter. Harcourt, Brace and Company, 1935.
$2.50.
Do you want to get acquainted with some short story people that do not leave you after you've finished the book? Then go to the nearest library and get Katherine Anne Porter's Flowering Judas. It covers a wide variety of characters and themes, and the settings range from Connecticut to New York, New Orleans, and Mexico. None of them may be said to be typical studies of American life, nor in general do they contain any broad analysis of social ills. There are, however, several exceptions to this, notably the fine social satire in the study of the man Braggioni in Flowering Judas. Here Miss Porter has done with quiet artistry what Westbrook Pegler has been noisily engaged in doing in his newspaper column. But most of the stories could be trans£ erred to any time or place and lose nothing in effect. Miss Porter's field is preeminently the rather restricted and yet universal one of subtle human relations and individual character analysis.
Taken separately the different stories vary somewhat in merit. "The Cracked Looking Glass," one of the best, is a rich and complex study of a vital middle-aged woman's clutch at youth and life and of the psychological readjustment which brings her to an acceptance of the inevitable and to the
realization that the life she sought is to be found at home after all. In "Maria Concepcion" we have the story of a happily married woman who becomes embittered and almost destroyed spiritually by her husband's infidelity, who takes a terrible revenge upon her rival, and then finds her own redemption in her love for that rival's child. Here through the medium of the author's style the character analysis of a deeply feeling but wholly inarticulate woman is achieved without the clumsy expedient of comment. One of the most delightful of the collection, "Rope," is a study of the transient irritation and friction likely to occur occasionally in the best of marriages. It is written entirely through the eyes of the husband and wife, and this approach gives added form and significance to a small but very human experience. "Flowering Judas," the story from which the volume takes its title, is perhaps the most noteworthy example of the author's precise, controlled method which deftly conveys a mood and rigidly excludes the superfluous. While the stories are not of uniform excellence, even in those where the content fails to make its point, interest is still maintained through the author's skill in treatment and her mastery of the art of mood painting.
Miss Porter belongs to the subjective school of writers. She achieves her effects by the use of understatement, careful selection and exclusion, and a delicate perception for word connotations. By remaining close to the factual and the concrete, she escapes the irritating flavor of literary affectation which afflicts many modern writers, and yet she is artist enough to avoid a simplicity which is merely barrenness. Her satire, seen at its best in Flowering Judas, is subtle but pointed, and her style is polished and restrained. The treatment of Mexican characters and background in several of the stories reveals not only a feeling for the individuality of the country, but also an understanding of the psychology of the people. This interest is in keeping with the present-day Mexican trend in American art.
TAMIS LACHANCE.
THE COVER:We had hoped to borrow an idea from Life magazine and reproduce here a miniature of the cover, but the expense of such an undertaking prevented it. . . . Flossie LaFoon shows her artistic ability and imagination in this very timely drawing, an interpretation of which is unnecessary.
KITTY CRAWFORD'Sdescriptive and moving style is familiar to you all, and we are glad to publish another of her short stories. As president of the Writer's Club she will head an important source of Westhampton material throughout the year.
THOMASBROGANhas hitherto confined his writing to the Sports Department of Th e Collegian, but makes his MESSENGERdebut with an informative article on the CA.A. program, a subject of foremost importance today.
PAUL SAUNIER,a graduate of last June, has been one of the ablest and best received contributors of THE MESSENGERfor several years. Although his revelation of the " pulps" is meant as serious criticism, it contains his characteristic wit and humor.
ARTHURJONES,not to be confused with the football player, writes, we are told, an average of 1,000 words per day which is some indication that he enjoys it. In this issue of THE MESSENGERhe presents a story which contains not only a romantic plot but a psychological character study.
CAROLYNGARY,president of the Players and star of many dramatic performances on our campus, has written for THE MESSENGERreaders an account of her fascinating experiences in summer stock at the Barter Theatre. Her performance on THE MESSENGERstage certainly demands a curtain call behind the footlights of another issue.
BEN RouzIE, former editor of Th e Monocle at John Marshall High School , shows great promise as a freshman of Richmond College. We hope you'll be as delighted with his verse as
sketches accompanying the surprise laugh verses of Ben Rouzie which you will find under the title "Freshman Grosseries."
MILTON FRIEDENBERG is to be commended for his striking originality and richness of poetic feeling in the poem "Evening."
The Rushee Speaks (Continu ed fr om p age 21)
I liked the house. They asked me to drop around with the gang I was with at the time: to drop around about a quarter of nine the next day. I didn't know why they asked us to do that, but we all went (heck, why not?) and were sucked accordingly. They kept us there on one pretense or another until after nine, at which time, I later learned, the imaginary gun was fired to start the date cards rolling under the brothers' pens. They signed us all up for two-hour dates on the three nights of the official rushing season. Theirs were, of course, for the hours considered choicest. We were almost late to an orientation speech, and we didn't know what the whole thing was about on the cards. We hadn't had time to read all the rules on the reverse side.
We walked out of the Playhouse into the pledge cards of fraternity men. My head was in a whirl, literally, turning its naive self toward one face and then another and another, faces which I had met the day before, faces which were smiling at me then. I didn't know the men of one fraternity, some of them, from those of another. When one group of brothers finally got me away from the milling herd, my date card looked like a composite whirlpool of Europe's battlefields. I didn't even know what fraternity house I was headed for.
I accepted invitations to rush dances, and I had a good time. But I knew that things were just a little bit colored up at those dances. There was no drinking at a dance given by a fraternity that is noted for its alcoholic content by volume. That wasn't just right. The dates of the brothers talked up the fraternity in a subtle manner, commenting on its traditions, records, and distinguished alumni. I was introduced to so many girls that I remembered just two names from the first introduction raid. But the brothers and their dates were polite and cordial. I had a good time at the rush functions. we are.
While I was filling the business dates on my ED LUTTRELL,another freshman and a ministerial card I didn't have much time for anything else. student, shows decided talent as a cartoonist. One fraternity made it short and to the point. His sly pen pokes fun at the class of '44 in the They didn't turn on any pressure-if they had any ( 27]
- and I don't believe they wanted me anyway. Next I found that I had an important decision to make between the two remaining fraternities . I liked the boys in both groups. They liked me, I think, and it was the boys, not th e national standings of the fraternities, that influenced me a great deal. It was the boys, the fellows that would be my closest friends during four important years of my life, that I tried to judge. I talked to them one by one to find out something about their philosophies. I talked to friends who knew them to check their reputations Then I made my deos1on .
I'm afraid I would have pledged under the heady influence of some of the salesmanship that I heard-if I hadn't snapped out of the haze and off the horns of the dilemma and thought the thing out. However, many of the freshmen are snapping out of that haze only now, when it is too late. In two weeks they hardly found out how many rooms are in the houses or the meaning of the word " fraternity. "
Throughout the whole period of rushing, I didn ' t know much of what was going on: and plenty was going on I was in a kind of haze. After each day, my mind was in a jumble .... " A:lpha , beta, kappa, chi. oldest fraternity on the campus you were highly recommended to us we need you theta, sigma our house is paid for for a town student, a house is unnecessary . . . lambda, phi . . . don ' t rush into anything." On falling a sleep , I encountered a nightmare to end nightmares. Greek letters with legs were chasing me into a dark hole , the unknown~
The Rusher Speaks
(Continued from page 2 0 )
snatched up again, this time for a date, a movie or a dance . Finally the end comes The second Saturday after school opens rolls around. He senses that the end is near , for everyone is convergin g on him He takes a last longing look at his room that he may ne ver see again , tearfully bids his roommate goodbye, and wends his way to the abode of the fraternity that has " first dates " with him.
As he enters the door of the fraternity , he is greeted by a crowd of fra t ernity men and alumni. Immediately a group of them whisk him away and in eloquent tones plead with him to join their fraternity. The refusal that he gives does not discourage them , but only makes them a little more eloquent and a little more tearful. After two hours he gets away and goes to another fraternity where he again runs a similar gauntlet. At last he returns to the room he thought he would never see again only to find that he has a phone call.
It is an alumnus of one of the fraternities, from his home, who tells him, for fifteen minutes, that there will forever be a stigma upon his name unless he joins the organization that the alumnus represents
Upon returning to his room he finds a telegram from an alumnus of another brotherhood which says the same thing that the alumnus of the telephone had said a few minutes before. This is truly perplexing , to say the least.
On Sunday and Monday he is told about fraternities. Apparently they are all considered to be the best on the campus. Apparently they all have dues which seem on the surface to be rather staggering , but which actually are nothing " for he will be repaid a thousandfold by the good times he will ha ve as a fraternity man," according to the brothers . It is very confusing because they all tell him the same thing and in one breath tell him to think the thing out carefully and take his time about it; and in the next breath they try to get him t o join on the spot. It's going to be very hard for him to make up his mind, for all of them are rnce.
On Tuesday he does make up his mind , however , and g oes to the fraternity of his choosing. Oddly enough the fellows seem to have changed somewhat. No longer do they call him by his first name; his name has overnight been changed to " goat. " No longer do they leap to get him a glass of water or a cigarette; instead he gets them w a ter, and they " bum" all his tob a cco. No longer do they clap him on the back in a friendly manner; they now clap him elsewhere in a most unbrotherly sort of way.
He is at last a fraternity man.
EXTRADISTANCE INHISDRIVES_ EXTRASINHIS
CIGARETTE
YE S , L AR R UP I N G LAWSON LITTLE- N ATIO N A L OPEN CHAMPION - PREFE RS THE CIGARETTE T H AT GIVES THE "EXTRAS"SLOWER - BURNI N G C AMELS
I TURNEDTO CAMELS FOR EXTRAMl LDNESS AND FOUNDSEVERAL OTHERSWELLEXTRA~Toq INCLUDINGEXTRA SMOKING. SLOWERBURNING SURE IS THE TICKET FOR STEADYSMOKING
WATCH OUT, PAR-here comes Little! No,
unless he can bette r par in h is golf in
ness I can get in my cigarette," he says "Camels
mildness. And Camels also give me somet
flavor that doesn ' t tire my tas t e." Yes, Camels give
plus an extra measure of eac h The ex t ra flavor o f costlier to b accos p reserved by slower burning The natural mi l dness an d coo l ness of cos tli e r tobaccos plus freedom from the irritating qualities of too -fast burning. And on top of extrtt pleasure-Camels give extra va l ue (see p,me l ,11 righ t )
YOU WATCH t h at ba ll go screami ng off t h e tee and you shake your hea d How does h e do it? Form , timi n g, power, wr i st action, control he has t h em a ll- but Lawson Little has that ext.-a measur e of each which makes the difference between a good go l fer and a champion. Ju st as the e xt.-tts in h is cig a rette Ca m e l make the diff e rence between smokin g and s moking p l easure at it s b es t.