Chesterfield . SS, for BETTERT . th . IS the win . ASTE and C eir right combimt· mng cigarelle ti ' COLER SMOKING
A ' wn of the w ' ,ey re quick to . ' 11around orld s best cig satisfy with . . you p k arette t b gmng smok ' ac after pack ' o acco& ers a lot , you II se Ch and you've got more pleasure J. e esterfields a cigarette to h . om m, light 'e Everywh c eer about m up, ere you .,, I, go ••• , s ave Ch a esterlie/d ~s·
ANGELA CUMMINS
Chesterfield' Girl of the M s onth
THE MESSENGER
UNIVERSITY OF RICHMOND
Editor-in-Chief
MARY GRACE SCHERER
Richmond College Editor Westhampton College Editor
HARROL A. BRAUER, JR. FRANCES ELLIS
Assistant Editors
JANICE LANE LILA WICKER MARK WILLING
Editorial Staff
ALLISTER McKENZIE
ANN BYRD TUCKER
ROSE KALTUKIN
ERNEST MOONEY
LOUISE WILEY
NANCY MASTERS
MARIANNE WADDILL
Art Staff
ED LUTTRELL
Business Manager
ROBERT S. BLACK
VOLUME XLIX
FRANCES BEAZLEY
Assistant Business Manager
THOMAS J. CURTIS
OCTOBER, 1941 No. 1
Over the Desk
Come in There's no need to look so solemn, and stop frowning as if you were just looking into a treatise on "The Liquefaction Opacity Characterizing the Spillikin." You can't stay long without smiling because we enjoy ourselves, too. If we didn't we'd be sombre and heavy which is never advisable; not too light, not too heavy, but the pleasant balance that tips the scales.
Our weight depends on you - your contributions, your criticisms, your suggestions, your requests. From you comes the magazine; it is your opportunity, your responsibility. It represents you -your thought, your actions, your words, to this campus and others. The future, the present, see you through the University publications.
You are not too serious, nor too silly, but representatives of well-rounded American youth-the most normal group of young people in the world today. No matter what the vein-light or heavysuch is your privilege--to think and write freely. It is our heritage, this sane balance; without it we could no longer enjoy Isben and Saroyan both in the same hour. Without it tears could not so readily adapt to smiles. Without this balance, typical of you, there can be no student magazine. It serves a many -fold purpose-a medium of literary expression reflecting us as individuals. In this comes the variety that creates interest.
Subject matter is abundant today for both fiction
and non-fiction as we race ahead in the love of living. Possibilities in style are ample, as more and more writers break conventional bonds dictating rigid rules To write well and cleverly in either li ght or serious vein offers a wide field for your pen to traverse. It is a challenge to youth today to profit in the literary realm as individuals. Creative writing is not the only way for expression. As initiated by our predecessor, the department entitled "Letters to the Editor" is space for your suggestions and criticisms. We urge you to take this opportunity. It is our only way to know you and your preferences.
Your ideas in the form of verse, satire, short story, and articles are vital. Most of you can qualify in one of these forms. You have good taste-it is your birthright. It is that which discriminates between what is done well and what is done poorly. With it you can help us keep our balance.
Remember, through you we can present-"The best that is thought and said" on the campus of the University of Richmond.
Gratitude and Regrets
Straughan Gettier, appointed Richmond College Editor last June, was forced to resign due to uncertainty caused by the present military program. Our new Richmond College Editor is welcomed but commendation to Mr. Gettier for his earnest and excellent work during the summer and for this issue deserves recognition. Although his place on the mast-head has been relinquished to some one else, his suggestions have been invaluable. Aware of the possibility of the termination of his school career for the present, Mr. Gettier did not select most of his staff which accounts for the lack of Richmond College editors.
Once more, we of the present staff should like to express our sincere appreciation of the work he has done.
Fiction Contest
To further the pursuit of good writing on our campus, THE MESSENGERhas been authorized to sponsor two contests during the school year. The December issue offers a splendid opportunity to · those interested in short stories. A ten-dollar award will be made to the author of the fiction considered superior by the judges. Submit your typewritten manuscript with name attached in a sealed envelope. More than one may be contributed and it is open to all students except members of THE MESSENGERstaff. THE DEADLINE, NOVEMBER 26.
[ 2}
Across the Street
By LUCY McDONOUGH, '42
SHE always walked along this side of the street, sauntering and humming as she looked at the handsome display windows. In her hand she held a leash, and a wire-haired terrier pulled at the other end. Occasionally she would glance across the street, but she quickly turned back again. It was ugly over there. The "wrong" side of Meadow Street consisted of a tired row of dingy little shops with apartments above them, and the people were dirty and greasy looking There was one man who would stand on his tiny upstairs porch and stare at her. He was staring now. She looked back at the white buildings and the windows, full of beautiful, bright-colored things. She always took this side of the street. She did not want to be seen on the other side.
But a gray cat ran out into the middle of the street, and the dog lurched after him, jerking the strap from her hand. The dog chased the cat across the street , and to catch him, the girl had to follow The animals disappeared down an alley, then came racing back again, and darted under a "Dead End " sign into a dump.
The girl watched them , but she could not go d o wn the steep hill.
" Don't worry, lady , " ~he heard someone say. "That cat will be back in no time, and the dog will come too."
She turned and saw that the speaker was the man who owned the grimy little grocery store. He was short and greasy looking, and he wore a dirty white apron. She had heard that he was dishonest and short-changed everyone .
She said nothing, but the man smiled. He had white teeth.
"If you like, Madame, you come inside and wait. It ' s cooler. We got a electric fan. "
The girl turned and looked at the dump. Neither the dog nor the cat were to be seen. It was very hot. '
She nodded and followed the little man into the store. She walked carefully, so that she would not soil her white skirt by the filth, and when the little girl in the dirty dress pushed forward a chair for her, she spread out her handkerchief and sat on it.
She had of ten seen these two before , the greasy
little man and the little girl with the smears of paint on her dress. She had glimpsed them from across the street.
She looked around her. It was dark, and permeated with a vegetable smell, but she was surprised to find that it was neatly kept. Everything was in its place, and in spite of the dark varnish, the furnishings gave the appearance of just having been dusted. An old electric fan rattled from the top of the meat counter, and the man and the little girl went about their business quietly, being careful to keep out of her way.
On the walls she noticed a few sketches and hand paintings , roughly and inexpertly done, but quite good .
"Who did the paintings? " she asked.
The little man brightened and waddled across the store.
" My Maria, she make them," he said, and he pulled out a pile of canvases. He gave them to the little girl.
"Show them to the lady," he told her.
The child smiled shyly and took the paintings. Then she put them one by one on an old easel and talked about them softly and intelligently. Her father beamed. There were paintings of animals and flowers, and a few nature scenes, and each one , though obviously the work of a child, had a definite realism.
"We going to send Maria to school, " the fat man told the girl. "We saving our money so Maria can paint , " and he went on smiling and nodding as the child showed her work.
"You show the lady the one you make of Tony ," he said, when they had reached the end , and the little girl went into another room.
A child had entered the store and was buying some cheese Her cl9thes were even dirtier and more ragged than the grocer ' s daughter's, and her fingers left smudges wherever she put them.
· "How ' s you Momma?" the greasy little man asked her.
The little girl looked up at him.
"Mamma's well now, but Daddy ' s still sick. Momma says to tell you she'll pay next week."
The man smiled.
"You tell you Momma take her time," and he [ 3]
put a loaf of bread into the bag with the cheese. Then he tucked a lollypop into the chubby hands.
"You tell you Momma you been a good girl," he said, and the child smiled and scampered out.
"Poor little girl," the fat man said. "Maria she got no Momma, but she's not hungry."
The girl sat silent in the chair and watched the fat man wonderingly as he went about his work. His apron was not really dirty; but there were meat stains that he could not help. His hair was black and curly, and his skin was dark. Perhaps it wasn't greasy.
The old electric fan rattled from the meat counter.
"Lady, there's you dog!" cried the little man, and he waddled out the door as the dog ran by. The girl followed him, calling, and the dog came panting. She caught the leash and prepared to go, but the fat man stopped her.
"Please," he said, "you see Maria's picture of Tony."
She nodded and turned toward the store. Down the street the man on the porch was staring.
The little girl had brought out another canvas,
larger than the others, and set it on the easel. It was a painting of a young man, staring with sightless eyes.
"That's Tony," the little man said. "Tony's blind. He lives down the street. My Maria painted him. She win first prize for it at school."
The girl looked at the canvas. It was a young face, brave, but the sightless eyes stared at her, hopeless. It was the man on the porch who stared at her.
Her eyes felt hot. She wanted to cry. But she thanked the man and his little girl, and left.
As she passed under the balcony, she looked up. The young man heard the footsteps, and he smiled and lifted his hand. His eyes stared at the fine shops on the other side of the street, but they were blind. The girl followed his stare. There were only white buildings, and the things in the windows were only bright colors.
She looked back up at the man on the balcony and smiled.
"Hello," she said.
He smiled, and the girl swung briskly along the sidewalk on the "wrong" side of the street.
TimeIs YourSolace
Out of the silence of the shuttered dark
Where can you find an answer to your tears, So great a loss to leave no living mark Upon the haunted memory of years? The sympathy of stars is weak and cold, The sound of wind in cypress far away; Though night is peace itself, a silver-stoled Compassionate figure-you must face the day. If you were less than you have been before, Given to early grieving and escape, I could bring comfort to you, even more; But as it is, no word of mine can shape Your laughter,-you are one of those destined To seek themselves the haven they would find.
NANCY MASTERS, '43. [4]
PRINTSHOPPARADISE
By LILA WICKER, '42
IT WAS one of those beautiful, crisp October afternoons-the kind that makes you want to get out of doors and burn leaves. Everywhere, with the exception of one place, people were happy, carefree, and out enjoying the beauties of nature. It was a late Thursday afternoon, to be exact, and behind the Methodist Orphanage the sun struggled to get through the filthy film of dirt on the windows of the little, red building. Once inside, the sun got lost in the billows of smoke which enveloped in a thick screen, great oily printing presses and rickety tables.
Here and there hunched in grotesque positions around the tables or striding around in frenzied circles were humans who appeared to be possessed of some strange mania . Curses rang out over the clatter of the machines, and the steady rattle of a portable typewriter produced a monotonous undertone. Paper, littering the floor, was carelessly trampled under foot; empty paper cups, still smelling of Coca-Cola, lay around everywhere.
In a tiny cubbyhole, which was flatteringly called an office, "Big Shot" Wormier was attempting in vain to fill ten inches of editorial space with a wordy dissertation on "How to be Popular and Still Keep Your Frat Pin." Screaming in his ear was chief "Yes Girl" Coldhash.
Said Big Shot, "Listen, you. I'm running this paper now, and none of your Losthampton ·trash on the annual clean-up week is going in this space."
"Yes, but-" quavered Coldhash.
"No butts for me! Gimme a whole cigarette."
Wormier clawed at his empty pack and then helped himself to a weed in the pocket of a boy who was bleating into the telephone by the door.
"Please, Mr. Meddles, can't we have some more information?" he pleaded meanwhile aiming a leer in the direction of Big Shot. "It's the lead story again, and we haven't a cut to take up the extra room."
"Run last week's story," snapped Big Shot, "and for Gawd sake, shut up. Nobody reads the stuff anyhow."
From the large room came sounds of battle. Through the smoke could be distinguished two giant figures, matching insult for insult. Frances Beastly's red top knot stood on end, and she bared her teeth in a nasty snarl.
"I repeat, this headline will fit! I've counted it fifty times and if you don't like it, that's just too bad!"
"Pipe down," rumbled Dicker. 'Tm doing make-up on this paper, and I say your ( censored) headline doesn't fit, and wouldn't fit even if we stretched the column as big as you."
Beastly's lip quivered, and two boxes of Kleenex . were swiftly thrust into her shaking hand.
"You big bully."
At this point, from a dark corner, occupied by two people who called themselves the sports staff, came an adolescent giggle.
"Oh, have you all read Rotten's Column. He's got some new people in it this week, the Eta Cheese and gossip about frat pins. It's a panic!"
Guy Friddle rushed over and snatched the piece of copy from the speaker, Lois Pester.
Lois gurgled and dented her dimples. "Why, Guyie, you aren't mad with little me?" She broke off. "Where is Lousie's column? I haven't seen that either. It's so much fun to know things before anybody else."
Friddle cast her a withering look and stalked off.
"Now how do I write a sports story?" she mumbled on. "Let's see-"
"It's either the Femmes or El Pickerup. Take your choice. Something has to go in," decreed Beastly.
"When's the next co-ed?" broke in Dicker. "I haven't gotten asked yet. Know any girls who want a blind date?"
Finally the shades of evening were triumphant both inside the printshop and outside where no one had been. One by one the people straggled away, afoot, in the firewagon, or swinging onto the last trolley that ran before supper. Quiet settled over the place. Suddenly the door burst open and the thin figure of Helen Herstink staggered into the printshop loaded down by two hat boxes, a suit box, numerous Woolworth bundles-and one tiny, two-inch cut.
"Hey, people, I'm sorry it took so long to get this cut from the T.-D. I went straight down there at two o'clock and rushed right back, but you know how slow these street cars run and-" She stopped short. "Why-why-they' re all gone! I'll miss supper! This print shop life is killing me!"
[ 5 J
TheBestYearsof YourLife
By MARK WILLING, '42
L MY LIFE I have heard older people say that, "Your school days are the best days of your life." Being a broadminded person and being the type that is willing to believe and trust other people, I swallowed this gu_fffor many years. Of late, however, I have investigated this claim of my elders and have found that it is nothing more than a lot of dreary nonsense with which those of the last generation fatigue the intellect of youth.
I once asked an elderly uncle why he persisted in this contention. His answer was short, sweet, and to the point.
"Why, my boy," he said, "you have no worries or cares. Yours is a life in which the world problem does not exist." Damned little did he know about my worries and problems; I wish he were in my shoes for a little while; he'd find out about such things.
Why, only last week-end I was confronted with the problem of having a date for a set of dances and no money.
That isn't quite true, for I did have a little money -thirteen cents and two rusty paper clips.
At first I tried to float a loan with the cooperaation of some of the boys that lived on the Hall. Strangely enough, no one was at all amenable to this plan. As a result I was forced to pawn my roommate's watch-without his knowledge.
The week-end went off smoothly enough, but on.Monday my roommate discovered the fact that he had no timekeeper; so I had to take the check, that I had just received from home for the purpose of buying textbooks, and redeem his watch. This left me with tests coming up and no books with which to study.
As the situation now stands, I have no money and no textbooks. Consequently, I shall doubtless fail my tests. · This will cause my family to · dis-
[ 6]
cover that I have defrauded them, and they will give me hell. My faculty adviser, a learned soul, will also give me hell and will infer that he suspects I haven't been studying. And the Dean will give me hell, too, in a neighborly way.
No, I haven't got any worries or problems-much.
* * * * * *
Another argument is the one that is advanced by an aunt of mine. Her contention is that I am at present in that period of my life in which I have nothing to do except to play and, in general, have fun .... She's crazy.
time each that is.
I have a term paper to write, six hundred pages of parallel to read, and five classes to prepare ( if I ever get any books). In addition, I have a few classes and labs to attend each day. Couple all this with the two weeks ' worth of back work that I have to do, and it becomes obvious that I have all manner of time in which to cavort about the city of Richmond. In fact, I should say that I had almost six hours of spare day-if I give up eating and sleeping,
* * * * * *
An old friend of the family's, a maiden lady of some four score years, advanced this theory: "My goodness," she said, "but you must have a lot of fun. Just think of all the pranks you indulge in." Impolitely I snorted my ridicule.
I remember a certain evening on which I threw a friend's bed out the window. This is really much funnier than it sounds, for he was in the bed at the time. It was a riot, but did he think so? He did not. Apparently he had no sense of humor, for the minute he got ·out of the hospital he threw me out of the window. And he threw a bureau down on top of me, too. It was a caddish thing, to say the least.
The last "prank " that I indulged in was when I went to paint somebody's campus. These people were so ill-mannered that not only did they refuse to let me beautify their school, but they cut my hair off as well. What a blow!
This all just proves that one can't have . any sport around here at all.
* * * * * *
The climax to the whole situation came, however, when my grandfather reminded me that I should be overjoyed at the fact that my whole life a nd future lay before me. I, in turn, reminded him that after I graduate, I shall have to work for the government, carrying a rifle, for two and a half years And at twenty-one dollars a month , too. I'll be an old man by the time I return to civili an life What kind of a future is that, if any , for a young boy to look forward to?
This, then, is my answer to all those fogies who misguide the young and gullible by telling them that their school days are the best part of their lives.
"Fooey to them ," I say, and in case they didn't hear, I repeat , " Fooey ."
* * * * * *
On one particularly dark and dreary night I was talking in this vein to my father . His calm and placid observation was that, if I felt this way, I should leave school and go to work .
"Go to work," I screamed. " Quit school? Why I couldn't think of doing that. I'm having too much fun . And besides, don't you realize that these are the best years of my "
I stopped short , feeling rather foolish and then slunk sheepishly off into a corner to write this spasm
MexicanOdyssey
By JOHN DECKER, '43
66WELL, glad to see you back. How d'ya like it out there?" Any one who has ever been anywhere has heard those two sentences repeated practically without end. It doesn't matter whether you travel to New Orleans or Kalamazoo , to Shanghai or London; they'll ask you the same question in the same words .
In nine cases out of ten the answer is, "We had a wonderful time, but " This summer in Mexico is the ninth of the nine cases. The " but" clause says, "but we had to work too hard. "
Richly endowed universities and heavily backed geological societies seem to have a craving for sending expeditions to the uttermost spots on the globe In the particular case of geological mapping the reason for this is evident. All of the interesting and useful mountain ranges have been mapped and explained long ago, and so the geologists of today in search of something "original " must traipse around the earth to find the most desolate , the most useless, and the dustiest mountain range known, for that is probably the only one that has not been previously "gone over " with a fine-toothed comb.
Such were the circumstances that sent five men in two station wagons across the United States and into Mexico under the auspices of the University of Michigan (Tom Harmon) and the Geological Society of America They were instructed to work on two mountain ranges both of which fit the above idea of a geologically perfect range . .. the Sierra de Tlahualilo and the Sierra del Rosario. They are located in southwestern Coahuila and western Durango around the busy commercial metropolis of Torreon.
If one is not tempted by geology (I am not) , there are plenty of other things to see and be interested in. The geologists stick to the mountains and that leaves their aides free, after the work of supplying the. field camp is done. It is , however , much easier said than done. It was a matter of driving station wagons loaded with everything from chili to plane tables, from gas to water over the worst roads in the western hemisphere From Torreon to camp was about thirty miles and twice the trip took thirty hours.
One time is of particular note It began to rain
just as the truck started back. The summer is the rainy season in northern Mexico and it must have rained all of four inches in the three wet months. That is why it stirs the soul when it picks the day on which you travel in order to have a good rain. We got stuck four times, had one blowout , and two flats , broke a pair of mud chains and a shovel , and then set the engine on fire by spilling gas on it when we were trying to clean a tire of mud in order to patch it. Both English and Spanish were, of course , inadequate
We walked four miles to a row o f adobe huts called Juan Eg arcia and rented the g randest vehicle in town ... a bu ck-board with a driver and two small , undernourished mules as the power. The total bill for the whole day of haulin g was four pesos or about eighty-five cents There ' s nothing like a depreciated currency so far as l as turist as are concerned The ride was fine except for the unending flies that bite like fury One of the sample bags ( full of rocks) fell off in the mud and got lost The aide got bawled out , but the expedition did not collapse as evidently feared
The average Mexican v illa g e home is an astounding place. The mud walls are high and thick and the thatch old and full of holes. The floor is dirt and everything else is dirty. Possibly one window livens the room. On the wall is an advertisement calendar exhibiting a fair Chinese maiden smoking a cigarette . It is put out by a local in the nearest town , twenty miles away The Chinese business men cover Mexico but their advertising does not seem to take into account the fact that Mexicans would probably rather look at a Mexican girl than a Chinese one.
If it is the right season a mighty pile of watermelons will be in the corner and the rinds and seeds of two or three others scattered about the floor. There will be children, in fact , more than likely a crowd of them, if you are an American. As a general rule no beds are in existence In one home I visited , the old man had a set of Simmons bed springs propped up on two soap boxes; that bed and his 1894 Winchester rifle were prized above all else including wife and family. The countryman sleeps on a guilt or blanket on the hard packed mud floor.
[ 8 J
One extraordinary feature of the Mexican village is the flies The flies and the dust should be incorporated into a national symbol for the section I visited.
The people believe in sticking close to the coat tails of the great Colossus of the North. The best advertised product in Mexico is . . . well, what is in the United States? Right Coca-Cola Everywhere and always the familiar red sign grins at you "Coca-Cola-Bien Fria." It costs 15 centavos a bottle or about three cents. They make a tremendous profit in Mexico or so the American consul says If three cents makes a profit, we really get rooked at ten cents per. The Mexican product is good on the inside but usually the "bien fria" bottle has been cooled in questionable water.
What is the most popular entertainment in Mexico? What is the most popular here? The celluloid kingdom of Hollywood holds sway the world round. American talking pictures with Spanish subtitles are considerably more popular than Spanish-speaking films. The motion picture industry in this nation should realize that America is judged by her films. All over Latin-America , Asia , Russia, and the rest of the globe we are known first and foremost by the movies we produce In Torreon I saw a picture whose American title was " Girls of the Road" or something like that. Here it's all right because people realize that most of it is fiction. The "ohs" and "ahs" of the Mexican audience showed that they could not tell what was true and what wasn't.
What is the most popular automobile in Mexico? What is it in the United States? Ford , Plymouth , and Chevrolet run neck and neck over the mud and deserts of Mexico as well as over her northern neighbors ' . There are some German cars, Opels for instance, but very few.
Joe DiMaggio's hitting streak was followed more closely in Mexico than was the Russo-German war. Many American negroes play on professional Mexican teams because they get better salaries there than negroes can get from any ball club here . They are admired and well-liked in Mexico; many settle down and spend their lives there.
One of the Mexican ' s outstanding characteristics is his desire never to say "no. " I ordered a complicated belt made in a talabarteria. For weeks I returned many times only to hear that they could not get the leather for it but that it would be in by tomorrow. That leather worker never intended to make my belt for me but he would not tell me that.
Only one brand of gas is sold in Mexico since the expropriation of foreign oil businesses. The Green and Red stations are run by the government and the gas is terrible but cheap . Mexican food is very hot but very good. Through long years of practice the people seemed to have developed victuals that just fit in with the heat. The diet of the poor is limited. Tortillas made of ground corn and water are the staple. The sound of women beating out tortillas with their hands in the market place is one of the distinctive noises of Mexico. They eat beans and more beans without ending. Los frijoles are very high in food value and are the main factor in keeping more people than do from dying of malnutrition. They love chili. It is nothing like Yankee chil.i; in fact , it is like nothing human. The tin of a fork dipped into the juice is enough to stop Americans for a whole meal. The Mexicans gulp it down.
In hotels American type meals are good and inexpensive about eighty-five cents our money for a huge steak dinner. The hotels for overnight are good too . . . about eighty-five cents a night for the best room in the place. These prices are for towns far from the track of the all-devouring American turistas. If those suckers showed their noses, the prices would skyrocket.
One of the finest feelings I ever had in Mexico came as we rolled over a hot , black highway towards Laredo, Texas and home. The sun was boiling in the sky and the desert heat was almost unbearable. \XTe raced over a sharp butte and there spread before us was the ugly, nearly waterless, gash called the Rio Bravo throughout Mexico. We know it as the Rio Grande The gleaming white sign on the bridge said , "Slow, International Bridge."
Just before we left Mexico we had to buy some gas to get over with. The gas station attendant messed up the windshield instead of cleaning it and had to search five minutes for the gas tank cap. He had forgotten where he had put it while he delivered our litres of gas. The torture of the border patrol was not too bad although very hot. In Laredo we stopped at a Texaco station and got everything fixed up right.
A friend who had spent the better part of his life in Mexico once told me that "south of the border, " efficiency ends and that's about right. It doesn't matter where you go, there is no place like home. I drank a Coca-Cola which tasted like the U. S. on the inside, but better still, smelled like the U. S. on the outside.
{r
{r
{r
I ThinkThat I Shall
NeverSee...
By BEN ROUZIE, ' 44
Stalwart and stolid ,
{r Well grown in twent y years
{r It stands
Full in the autumn sunlight ,
{r Bright colors misting
{r The spreading limbs
{r Above it.
Brown and shaded well it is
{r By the dense forest , forest as dense as hair ;
{r A thing
{r Of reticent beauty.
{r
Perhaps in some dull, evil moment
This youthful portion of eternal surging
{r Will be cut down ,
{r
Felled by the burly arms of some foul enem y.
{r Disastrous thought!
Disastrous to true lovers
{r Of the great score ,
{r The score of Nature ' s symphon y
{r
Standing alone, flanking its lesser fellows,
{r Its strength is nurtured, touched , preserved
By some great potent food
{r Of this good earth.
{r I think that I shall never see
{r A fullb ack 's calf sm ooth-shaven.
{r
{r
[ 10]
Anti-odeto Rouzie !
By J.FRANCIS SNOW, '42
This fellow Rouzie seems to think }} {{ He's good. But he's just wasting ink, }}
{{ His prose is only worthless bunk; }}
His poetry, just so much junk.
He ever strives to entertain; .t---r
{{ He strives and strives, but strives in vain; }}
{{ For who but fools could e'er enjoy }}
{{ Such works which serve but to annoy? }} His poetry winds
Tortuously
{{ Down the rough,
Unhewn
{{ upon the side of
Absolutely unpolished
{{ Mountain of
Tripe!
His glorious, exalted style {{ Of babbling is wondrous vile. }}
{{ 'Tis odd his ribbon doesn't shrink }}
{{ And quite refuse to furnish ink }} {{ For such atrocious trespassings Upon the world of art. }}
{{ Could I but do some censoring, }}
{{ I'd tear his works apart! }} Yet, let me not be one to say
{{ His works should not be read; }} {{ I'd rather far kneel down and pray }}
{{ His work ( and he!) be dead! }}
{{ Oh heaven, how can such a fool }} Presume to punish all {{ · True lovers of good poetry? }}
{{ Oh let his pen soon fall }} {{ Into a sea 'mid jeer and laughter, }} {{ Sink 'neath the waves and draw him after! }}
Half-Mast
By HARROL BRAUER, '42
THE case was about to be given to the jury. For the last two weeks no incident had been played up as much by the newspapers as the trial of Shelia Bradsworth , charged with brutally stabbing her husband through the heart with a pair ' of sharp-pointed scissors while he was sleeping in his room of their large home on the outskirts of Lbs Angeles.
Although there were few audible sounds when the council for the defense was about to wind up the testimony, one could easily see that the tenseness of everyone, including the defendant , witnesses to the crime, the judge , newspaper reporters, and the ever-curious public, had about reached its maximum degree.
Over in the corner reserved solely for reporters sat a young dark-haired individual of medium build called by the editor of Th e Los Angeles Gaze tt e, for whom he worked , "Deadline " Joe . He had gained this entirely undesirable name because he was famous for not sending in stories he had covered until the paper was about to go to bed His name, as it appeared on his birth certificate, was Joseph Richfield Cullman , III , which was likewise undesirable.
As he sat in the midst of other reporters, representing every other paper in the city, something came to his mind which made him hunch his shoulders and slouch farther down in his chair. That morning the city editor had said to him, " Joe , on the last three stories you have covered , you have brought them in after the paper was made up, making that edition several minutes late. That means sales were lost. The managing ed. gave me 'up the country' today for keeping you on the staff. Now listen Joe, I hate to admit it, but you're one of the best men I have. Damn it, I don't want to fire you, but how in the name of heaven can I keep you if you continue to crowd up on the deadline? True, it isn't always your fault; but that doesn't count with the big-shot. You ' ve just got to come through or else
"Maybe I'm a fool, but I'm going to give you another chance--this time at the hottest story in town. You know that Steve Harris has been covering the Bradsworth trial; well it's just my hard luck that he called up this morning and said that
[ 12]
he felt so sick that he wished some one would come by his house and do the same thing that was done to Shelia Bradsworth ' s husband . Anyway , I want you to take care of the rest of that trial. Now take your damn feet off my desk and get the hell out of here. If you don't get the story in on time for the last edition , don ' t bother to come back."
Joe had listened nonchalantly , but he knew that the city editor had really meant what he had said. Forgetting this unpleasant incident, " Deadline " began to concentrate upon the procedure of the trial.
He glanced at Shelia; a lovely woman, Joe thought. Too bad that such a dreadful thin g had to happen to such a young person Oh well, there was no use getting sentimental over some one he didn ' t know Besides he had his job to worry about.
When he turned back to the trial itself , the defendant's lawyer was speaking: " Your Honor , Gentlemen of the jury; in the course of this trial , we have proved to you that the defendant , Mrs Shelia Bradsworth , was not at the scene of the crime when it occurred , nor did she have anything to do with the circumstances As all of her friends knew, and have testified, Mrs. Bradsworth sincerely and devotedly cared for her husband Look at her sweet and innocent face. How could she have destroyed the only person that could give her the love she desired? Therefore , gentlemen , I beg of you , have mercy upon this woman and show her that you have sympathy for her feelings. In conclusion, I charge you to bring back a decision of ' not guilty.' Let her go free to retain the high regards which she has had for her husband."
Joe Cullman listened to the lawyer ' s concluding remarks with somewhat of a half-sneering attitude He knew that Shelia was innocent but he thought that the talk to the jury sounded more like a political campaign address than anything else. Joe was so disgusted with the lawyer that he didn't bother to listen to the remarks about to be made by the prosecuting attorney. He knew that nothing different would be brought out anyway .
Joe's mind again wandered to the proceedings of that morning in the editor's office. His main problem now, he thought, would be to obtain the
decision of the jury, write these facts, and get them up or down, rush to the office and turn in the to the office in time for the next edition. Joe looked right story. For heaven's sake, don't get it mixed at his watch. He noted that he had three hours be- up. By the time you get over here, I'll have the fore the paper went to bed. Of course, if the jury stories ready for you. Do this for me, Miller, and stayed out longer than that there would be very I'll make it up to you. Meet me in front of the little he could do, except mention several facts in building in thirty minutes. Okey, boy, good luck." the trial that hadn't been brought out until today Joe left the drugstore, nervously lighted a and let it go at that. He was nearly sure that the cigarette, and hurried back to the reporter's desk jury wouldn't stay out so long, however, because in the courtroom, where he scribbled on several he could hardly imagine that Shelia Bradsworth pieces of paper the two stories that he had menwould be found guilty. There was no real evidence tioned to Miller. After he wrote them he left the against her. room and went to the front of the building where
At that moment something very unusual took the feature writer had just arrived. He gave the place-Joe had an idea. Brainstorms very rarely stories to him and hurried back, sat down and hit him. He turned the newly-found notion back waited for the juryroom to open. At that moment and forward in his small cranium. Thought Joe, the door leading into the juryroom did open and "If I can only get the story to the office in time for the nine men and three-middle-aged women filed a scoop I'll be appreciated for a change - and back to their seats. probably get a raise. Let's see, how can I manage Joe leaned forward anxiously; his face prothat? I've got it! I'll write two stories; one will be tracted as if in agony. Any one would think that that the defendant has been found guilty, and the he was the person being tried for murder, if one other one will be printed if she is found not guilty. bothered to look his way. But all eyes were on the The editor will never know the difference. But twelve decisioners. how can the story be sent to the office? No one Joe glanced toward the shade and saw that it will be allowed out of the courtroom until the was at half-mast, exactly where it was supposed judge lets him go. · · · AH, I know! to be. He then turned toward the judge, who
Just as the jury retired, Joe rushed out of the banged his gavel on the large mahogany desk to courtroom to the drugstore at the corner, where he restore order. entered the telephone booth.
Judge Robert's mighty voice boomed, "Ladies "Operator," he said, "Give me Ra nd olph 39- and gentlemen of the jury, have you reached a de001. Hello, Los Angeles Gazette? Say, Suzie, tell cision ?" Miller to drop everything and plunge himself this
One of the men, bald and rather plump and way. Yeah, that's right. Snap it up, sister." short, stood up. "Your Honor," he said, "due to
While waiting for Miller, feature writer on the the fact that one of the jurymen would like to re- Gazette, to come to the phone Joe was turning his plan over and over in his mind to see if there were ceive additional information concerning the case before he decides, we have not reached a decision." any fallacies. He decided that it would work out all right. It better had. Joe, who was about to start toward the window, "Miller?" he asked several minutes later, "This relaxed in his chair, as did several other reporters is ace reporter Cullman you hear. Listen closely; around him. Somehow or another he was glad that I've got something important for you to do for me. nothing had as yet been decided. The tension was You know I'm taking Harris' place on the Brads- nearly too much for him. He was nearly afraid that worth murder. He's sick. Well here's the set-up: something might go wrong; however that seemed the jury is deciding the case now and I don't know unlikely. He earnestly believed that he had thought how long they will take to reach a settlement. I'm of everything necessary for his plan to function supposed to have the story ready for the last correctly. edition.
The juryman who had asked for more informa"As soon as I get back from the courthouse I'll tion spoke, "Your Honor, I should like to ask the write two stories about the outcome of the case and defendant one question." give them to you. That's easy. I want you to station Judge Roberts readily granted the request and yourself outside the courtroom window on Sunset asked Mrs. Bradsworth to take the stand. Everyone Boulevard; if you see the shade go down it will could see that she was in no condition to be asked mean that the defendant is not guilty; if the shade anything, but the juryman went ahead anyway. goes up it will mean that she is guilty. Have you "Mrs. Bradsworth," he asked, "I want to know got that straight? Good. When the shade goes exactly why you were spending the night at your [ 13}
aunt's house, the same night your husband was murdered."
She did not answer right away, but when she did, she spoke in an extremely soft voice: "Grayson and I quarrelled that afternoon, something about the reason I would not go to a banquet he was giving for his company. I told him that I had an awful headache--for him to go ahead, but he wouldn't listen to reason. I didn't say another word but went upstairs, put some clothes in my overnight bag, and told him when he calmed down he could come for me at Aunt Gracia's home. I called a taxicab and left. That was the last time I saw him alive."
The judge, who, it appeared, was partial to the defendant, was not permitted to make any comment on the case, but he did tell the jury something which seemed to be of considerable interest to the defendant's lawyer, although he did not rise to say anything. The judge instructed the jury to disregard the answer to that question which he thought irrelevant.
The jury again went into retirement.
It was evident to Joe that Judge Roberts had had no authority to make any comment as he had done. But Joe did not bother to think further on the subject. His only current desire was to get his story in on time.
By this time about two hours had passed-only one hour until deadline. Joe was terribly worried by this time. Another fifteen minutes passed. Still no word from the jury. Now it was just twentyseven minutes before the paper went to bed.
The sun was sinking low in the west. It shone directly through the window and across the eyes of the judge, who was in a very comfortable position in his massive chair. For a minute or two, although irritated, he did not move. Then, not being able to put up with the glare any longer, he motioned the clerk to lower the shade.
Joe did not witness this occurrence. He was busy "making eyes" at a "come-hither" looking blonde seated in front of him with her skirt about five inches above her knees. If she didn't care, he thought, why should he?
His face, about the color of a bright shiny apple he had been accustomed to giving his teacher when he was in the grammar grades a few years back, turned accidentally toward the most important window and back again toward the legs without any registration upon his brain. Another second passed; all of a sudden, without turning his head to the shade again, he realized that some-
thing had gone wrong. More color came into his cheeks. His eyes nearly popped; his mouth dropped half-way open. If anyone had been looking at him then, he would surely have thought that this reporter was having an epileptic fit. Joe shrank lower in his chair. He forgot entirely about the blonde or the trial. His only thought was about the lowered shade.
Joe saw failure staring him in the face. He knew he would be ridiculed by everybody in town. He was positive he would be fired-he might even be thrown in jail.
Joseph Richfield Cullman, III, gradually approached normal. It dawned upon him that, if the jury should return a verdict of "not guilty'" he was saved. He thought that he had about one chance in four of coming out of this mess in one piece. He must take it though because there was nothing else to do.
The door of the jury room opened and out came the nine men and three middle-aged women again. The verdict would come before the papers were on the street anyway. The anxious reporter's heart thumped faster waiting for the words to be spoken. He heard the judge say, "Ladies and gentlemen, have you reached a decision?"
The bald, plump individual rose and said, "Yes, Your Honor, we have."
Joe thought that he would pass out.
The spokesman continued, "We, the jury, find the defendant GUILTY! "
Everybody in the courtroom, except Shelia Bradsworth and Joe was in an uproar. 'Tm ruined," Joe thought. Wild, frantic ideas ran through his stupefied mind. He knew that he was at the end of his rope without enough left to tie a knot to hold on to. Face the music or beat it out of town? Oh , what to do be hunted for a lifetime or be hounded forever?
Joe did not hear the judge pounding for order because his blood was pounding in his temples.
Finally the commotion subsided .... The judge was about to summon the defendant before him to pass sentence when Shelia Bradsworth's lawyer jumped to his feet and demanded the floor. Judge Roberts, though rather puzzled at the request, did not object, so the lawyer began.
"Your Honor," he said, "after consulting the laws of this state which deal with criminal courts, I find that if the presiding judge tells the jury to disregard any testimony which is vital to the legality of the case then the defendant may enter a motion in arrest of judgment, which therefore charges an error in your comment to the jury. Since you instructed the jury not to consider the [ 14]
facts concerning the reasons for Mrs. Bradsworth' s departure from her home on the fatal night, I demand that you accept this plea and discharge the defendant!"
The judge was taken by surprise. For a few minutes he did not speak. After some hesitation he said, "According to law the counsel for the defense is correct in his statement. Therefore, there is nothing I can do but declare the case dismissed and the defendant discharged."
Stunned by the rapid change of events, surcharged with emotional extremes, Joe, paralyzed, remained rigid in his place while bedlam stormed around him .... The courtroom cleared and he still did not move .... Newsboys were yelling the final edition now, "Bradsworth, Court frees Shelia Bradsworth, Court frees. . . . "
Joe sprang to his feet and bounded out onto the street and hailed a taxi. As he relaxed in the rear seat he ordered, "To the Los Angeles Gazette."
HomusPatheticus
By ELAINE BARRETT, '45
THE Homus Patheticus, known to the layman as the common "Freshman," is found chiefly in the back halls of old buildings, or may be discovered, if one is observant, in profusion around bus terminals, train stations, or other public places. In their early stages, it is often very difficult to find them because of the fact that they scamper about in confusion, seeming apparently to be without destination.
The novice should have no difficulty in identifying this lively little biped; its bright covering and constant happy chatter is familiar to nearly everyone. A close observer will notice the large flat feet ( a deplorable condition caused by unaccustomed footwork) , the long, drooping ears ( the undoubted result of too much good advice), and the slightly bulging eyes. If one is desirous of studying these creatures more fully, it is urged that the uppermost discretion and consideration be employed. It may be useful to notice that if left alone at night, the little creature will weep forlornly in his ( more probably her) pillow; but if placed in a group, he will frolic about happily, emitting strange piercing or gurgling noises. Scientists have not, as yet, discovered the purpose of the aforementioned interesting sounds.
For the convenience of future research, the animal may be divided into two species-Sophisticae and Timidae.
The former are generally seen fluttering about in groups, pretending to be unconscious of male Homus Patheticus, who hunt in packs and watch the females surreptitiously. The female ignores the
[ 15]
male H. P. because "the boys back home are much better." That is-for the first few weeks. Little can be said regarding the Timidae, as they are seen (visible) only rarely and scatter in terror when approached.
Here can be mentioned only the controversy centering around the strange community habits of the Homus Patheticus. The cause and results of its voracious appetite, the relationship between this and the extremely drowsy state of the animal must be discussed elsewhere.
Some philosophical examples of the species have predicted extinction for the H. P. unless something is done to curb the persecuting Sophomores. However, it seems the importance of the lastmentioned animal is negligible.
In conclusion, it may be stated that over emphasis cannot be placed upon the benefits and amusement afforded the scientist himself in studying the significant member of homo sapiens. However, the discerning student will do well not to meditate upon the shy, confused face of the "Freshman" with too much condescension. He would do well to remember that: "the self-same heaven that frowns on me, doth look sadly upon him." In short, though appearing eccentric and ludicrous, the Freshman's pitiful exterior often disguises a warm heart. Finally, I must urge the student against becoming discouraged with the complexity of the "Freshman's'' behavior pattern. If this is the case, it would be well for the novice to begin study with a much simpler, although less interesting organism-the species ''Sophomores.''
Ten MinutesLate
By ELLEN MERCER CLARK, '44
IT WOULD be ten minutes late. The Commuter's Train was always late. Late , an~ slow , and pokey, crawlmg along and stoppmg at every little flag stop "What a silly way to get to town," thought Edna, and choked back a sob of rage as her heel caught on a root. A half-mile walk on a wood's road, deep in sand in summer and bogged with mud in the winter-time. Then waiting, always waiting, to wave a scrap of a white handkerchief at a puffing old locomotive that might or might not , according to the good humor of the engineer, answer with two grumpy toots.
There were tears on her cheeks , and her face felt raw in the cold wind, but she trudged on angrily . Thank goodness , this was the last time she'd make this walk, the last time she ' d climb awkwardly up the steps, trying to keep from touching the sooty rail. The Commuter's Train was the symbol of her dislike of the country and all its irritants. Just imagine Edna Fare walking down a swaying aisle, stumbling over the fat old woman's basket of flowers and sitting down near a group of giggling school girls , whom she would once have ignored, but whom she now envied . Edna Fare Arnold, talented writer of advertising , forced to go to town on a rattling , puffing , asthmatic train, getting middle-aged, and then old, living in a house miles from everywhere with a husband who was willing to let her struggle with the inconveniences of the dark ages while he tried to make a success of writing. A husband who thought she should be able to enjoy the beauties of nature in last year's dresses, who believed she could applaud his stories and not miss not seeing the season's latest hit.
She had stood by him. But she wasn't going to keep on waiting. Not forever. For eighteen months she had been brave and cheerful, pumping crysta)clear water from the old well , cleaning grimy lamp chimneys, shivering around tin heaters in big, drafty rooms. Now she was through. John had sold some of his work, in time he might sell more, some day he might even be famous-and it wasn't being a quitter to leave now. She had promised for better or worse, if it had been a question of starving romantically in a garret with him, she would have been willing, but when he deliberate-
ly turned down an offer that would mean comfort and security in a steam-heated house, she stopped trying to pretend that she liked living where she had to ride a local to town When she heard about the offer of the post of Instructor of Journalism in the city high school, she had first been wild with delight, then blankly amazed that he could even consider refusing it, then reasoning and persuasive, and at length bitter and disappointed.
"But, Eddie , darling , we are getting on all right. This will be the last winter we have to spend here. I'll find a publisher for my book soon ."
"John, dear, if you take this position as a teacher, you can write in your spare time, and there'll be loads of inspiration in town. We ' ll be able to see people and go to the theater and really live. "
"We are living here , Eddie, and you know how much spare time we would have in the city. People coming in and out, and wanting us to go places, and I'd have a regular job , and it would have to come first and my writing would get shot to pieces. We are close enough to town for you to go shopping or to a show, now ."
"Yes! On an old train that makes my head ache when I ride it, and is so dirty I couldn't wear good clothes even if I had any!"
"Eddie! That hurts . I'm doing well at writing for a person just beginning. If you ' ll stick it out just this winter and ride the train "
"All right!" She was sure she was white with fury and the pent-up protest of months of feeling left out of the gay world of the group to which she had belonged before her impetuous marriage to serious young Arnold. "All right! I'll ride your Commuter's Train. I'll ride it to town once more , but I'm not coming back on it!"
She had swept out of the house riding high on the crest of the surging wave of her anger. Now the wave was breaking up and falling coldly. Fiercely she whipped it up with the wind of her memory. "Remember last winter when the mail never came until at least four in the afternoon and quite often didn't come at all. When your fingers were so numb with cold in the morning that you could scarcely hold the plates and it was torture to try to warm them in hot water. Remember the rain
[ 16}
and the mold and damp, and the wind shaking the house at night. Remember the loneliness and the shaking, crawling, train that's always late. Remember those, Eddie?
"Forget about the meadows in the spring, and the shining snowy fields-the peace of hearing cowbells at sunset, and the brightness of stars far away from the city's lights. Above all, forget that the train will be late and that John will surely have time to come after you and change your mind. Forget that he'll surely follow you, and that you could so easily want him to."
As she reached the railroad track Edna glanced at her watch. Ten more minutes before the train would come. She looked back along the road. John should be in sight soon. He'd never let her go. Probably he was waiting until just before the train came. He knew that it was always late. Sudden! y, she heard the train whistle for the near-by crossing. For a frantic moment she stared up the track at the approaching engine. Then she burst into tears and started running toward home just as the Commuter's Train went by, on schedule for the first time in eighteen months.
Calendar for November
SEPTEMBER-DECEMBER 7 - Appreciation of Art Exhibit at the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts.
NOVEMBER 3 - Dance Recital of Miss Atty van der Berg-at the Playhouse.
OCTOBER17-NOVEMBER6 - Paintings of Alvin Hattorf at the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts.
OCTOBER24-NovEMBER 13 - Paintings of Esther Worden Day at the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts.
NOVEMBER7- 30 - Paintings of Jeanne Begien at the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts.
NOVEMBER10 -National Symphony directed by Hans Kindler, with Egon Petri as the Guest Pianist, at the Mosque.
NOVEMBER12-15 - "Choco late Soldier," presented by the members of Blues Auxiliary Force and representatives from the Opera group of_The Richmond Musicians' Club.
NOVEMBER14-30 - Paintings of Jewett Campbell at the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts.
NOVEMBER17 - Vronsky and Babin, duo-pianists, at the Mosque.
[ 17)
MineKampfandYours
By NANCY MASTERS, '44
GETTING out of bed is, it goes without saying, a violent struggle for every one of us-more than that, it is a major work of art, a test of ambition comparable to swimming the Channel or refusing a second piece of cake. The way you get up is a telling insight into your personality. It shows character - or maybe the absence of it.
How do you get out of bed on cold, blue Monday mornings? Do you push the covers back with one mighty heave, and leap on the floor like a lion on rabbits? Or do you prolong the suffering and emerge slowly, painfully, like the answer to a problem in Physics? Statistics ( my own imaginary ones) show that twenty per cent of the people who get up every morning do so because there's only one sausage apiece for breakfast. The rest do it because they smell toast burning, or the doorbell rang, or they are anxious to read the editorial page before the Salvation Army carts it away. Anyway, for one reason or another, it is evidentfrom the population of buses and the wide sale of nine-o'clock drugstore coffee-that nearly everybody gets up at least six days a week, hangover or no hangover, war or no war. Getting up is no vile product of the machine age. It is a timehonored phenomer:on. Even Anthony and Cleopatra did it. ·
Just why do people get out of bed in the morning? Nobody knows, or bothers to , probe the matter. It's just one of those things, like laughing at jokes or saying, "Dark, please," when you know very well you'd rather have white meat any day. Our civilization is just one long series of archaic conventions, even to the savage custom of kissing your great-aunts; so if you don't want to get out of bed, that's all right, but somebody else will beat you to the parade. Persuade him not to- go either, and the League of Nations and Grandpa Vanderhof are vindicated forever. But until you do, better get out of bed or the bugs will join your party.
Most people, before they reach the dreadful age of twenty-one and have to get up if they want to keep on eating, devise ghastly little systems of their own for overcoming this natural tendency, common to animals and vegetables alike: to stay
down under until something pushes them up. But a few people haven't the inventive imagination to think up ways that work. So for their convenience the Good Homemaking Magazine, in collaboration with the American Dandruff Association, has prepared an approved list of getteruppers. Here are some of these revolutionary suggestions:
Put your alarm clock on the far side of the room; if one doesn't work, try three, set for cliff erent hours. Paste mottoes on the wall, such as "Carpe diem" and "Why does a chicken cross the road ?"-they may help a little. Leave your closet door open and set a box of embryonic moths beneath your best wool clothes-having first made the salesman at the pet shop promise that the little demons would hatch at precisely 7: 00 A.M. Lay a fraternity pin, or the ring SHE gave you on your window sill with an electric fan near by guaranteed to start going five minutes before you should. Or have somebody gossip just out of earshot at the same time your alarm does its foul work.
These are all foolproof concoctions, and at least one of them should prove a success, providing, of course, that you're human. If it doesn't, buy yourself some pretty pajamas and prepare to spend the rest of your life under a patchwork quilt. You can do plenty there, anyway.
For after all, why not be like Ferdinand and ·smell wiolets while the rest of the world exhausts its four remaining senses? Knit sweaters for the British, and they'll give you a lovely pin. Play solitaire, and learn how to stack the cards. Of course, you'll never have the exquisite pleasure of getting back into bed at 3 :00 A.M. or so-but only think: you can't ever miss a street car, or fall down stairs-and no one, not even the sucker who prings your morning coffee, can hurry you through breakfast, or make you wear galoshes. For you, time has no meaning beyond the hour of your favorite radio program; you'll grow old gracefully, like a gardenia corsage; and you'll never have to wear corn pads, or scour the town for a pair of shoes that fit. Your problems are solved forever, as if by magic-or better still, you really haven't any.
{ 18]
The Keys of the Kingdom. By A. J. Cronin, Boston: Little, Brown and Company, 1941. $2.50.
Reviewed by Ann Byrd Tucker, '43.
"And I will give to you the keys of the kingdom." These words of Christ to the Apostle Peter ring through the pages of this book that today sounds a note of faith in a world of war and uncertainty. Come for a moment to the little town in Scotland where the young boy, Francis Chisolm, alone and friendless, first came into contact with the faith that was to become in time the motivating power of his life. We find him in the old monastery learning from the kindly monks the teachings that had never entered the makeshift home of his early childhood. The love and unselfishness of these servants of God fill the lad with wonder; and later, with a desire to follow their example.
As a young priest, Francis finds himself strangely out of tune with the conventional churchmen of his day. He cannot understand their narrowness and the intolerance of their faith, for he has seen a different vision of the church ' s place among men. He cannot hand himself to the limits in which he is supposed to move. For him this wider vision results in seeming failure as he is called from his parish and sent as a missionary to China-to war and unknown suffering.
Determined to make good, the priest takes up this new task with an eager heart, for a moment imagining himself one day in charge of a prosperous and influential monastery. Such is not life, and Francis Chisolm can hardly keep back the tears when only one Christian greets him in the Chinese village where he is to stay, and shows him the ruins of an old barn on the top of a hill-his monastery. Thus, alone, Francis must build the foundation before he can even dream of the finished product.
Seasons come and go as the great rivers rise and fall with them. The little monastery on the hill grows not only in bricks but in the hearts of the Chinese people who marvel at the faith and perseverance of the now aging priest.
Word is sent to England of the thriving work and two Sisters come to help him. One day a Methodist medical missionary arrives in the vil-
lage. The Sisters are horrified when the priest invites him to the Monastery and suggests that they work together. It is not easy to explain to them that God is the same no matter how one worships Him. A tragic accident finally opens the minds of these Sisters to the truth of Francis' words and his old dream seems to be nearer to realization.
Once more his hopes are shattered when he is called home and a new orthodox priest comes to take his place. It isn't hard to think with the old priest as he spends his last evening in the monastery he has built-whose every brick represents a dream, a promise, a task completed. They were his -every one and it is hard to understand the justice of God as he left forever all he had loved.
Home, he is now the abbot of the monastery where he had studied as a boy. Placed there where his freedom of thought cannot harm other churchmen, he finds in his old age much to think about. He has caught a gleam of the vision for all mankind-universal brotherhood; and his own people will not have it.
A trusted bishop is sent to the monastery to study the aged priest to decide whether he is still fit to hold his place among the other monks. As this bishop-educated, refined, worldly in his ways -comes to know Francis, he realizes that he is a far greater person than any man has ever believed.
To say this book is timely would be only half the truth; it is a book for all times. Its message of the part true religion can play in a modern world will never grow old, for it is a question that faces every generation. Nor do its characters belong to any particular period. Francis Chisolm is today's Saint Francis of Assisi, and his friends, those, who for ages, have wanted to bind men's minds to mortal laws.
There is a pathos to the story and a vitality which makes its characters really live. Following Francis Chisolm from his youth to his life in China, to his disappointments as an old man, and looking back at what his life might have been had he been willing to follow the doctrines his Church dictated, one says with the bishop as he sees Francis in his true greatness, "Oh Lord, let me learn something from this old man."
[ 19]
Thumbnails
Mark Willing, president Pi Delta Epsilon, stops leading cheers long enough to contribute an entertaining approach to the best years of your life. The art work, accompanying, comes from the talented hand of Ed Luttrell, campus cartoonist. Lucy McDonough doesn ' t devote all her time to the Web, the Writers' Club, Varsity Hockey, and numerous other activities as her story testifies.
... Don't take J. Francis Snow's word about Ben Rouzie's work too seriously-it's all in fun. Incidentally, you'll find J. Francis (Billy) around the physics lab or in the Playhouse almost any time
. . . Harral Brauer's story shows only one of his accomplishments; ask him about the Radio Guild or what it's like to be in a play We prophesied last year that Ellen Mercer Clark would be a
frequent contributor and our prediction is right. She's been writing for a number of years even before she came to college. Leah Levin, a freshman from Phoebus, Virginia makes us smile in rhyme with her. . . . Another newcomer, Elaine Barrett, comes all the way from California to expound on the biological species, Homus Patheticus.
. . . Ann Byrd Tucker, former co-editor of her high school year book, shows she ' s well qualified as a reviewer. After years behind the scene with the Collegian , Lila Wicker, in playful mood, reveals what goes on Remember Nancy Masters' poetry last year? We knew about that, but this is the first time her prose has been offered John Decker is back from Mexico to Collegi an , Players , literary society and other things.
In Annoyance
After due consideration Of the trying situation I felt the necessitation To see you.
With much deliberation And lots of hesitation I resisted the temptation To call you-(Collect) .
Suddenly came inspiration And following preparation With all due application To Write you. [ 20]
To my exasperation Reviewing your situation You replied in reciprocation No can do.
Now , I ask in desperation Should I in tribulation Resort to dissipation In Place of you
After further consultation
Over future deprivation I say sans hesitation To heck with you.
LEAH LEVIN, '45.
Camels are the favorite!
The smoke of slower-burning Camels contains 28%
Less Nicotine
than the average of the 4 other largest-selling cigarettes tested- less than any of themaccording to independent scientific tests of the smoke itself! The smoke's the thing!
First on Land and Sea! Army, Navy, Marines, Coast Guard yes, it's Camels with the men in the service. And with the millions of others who stand behind them, too. For Camel is America's favorite.
Join up with that ever-growing army of Camel fans now. Enjoy the cool, flavorful taste of Camel's costlier tobaccos. Enjoy smoking pleasure at its best -extra mildness with less nicotine in the smoke (see left).
SENDHIMA CARTONOF CAMELSTODAY.For that chap in 0. D. or blue who's waiting to hear from you, why not send him a carton or two of Camels today? He'll appreciate your picking the brand that the men in the service prefer Camels. Remember-send him a carton of Camels today.
BY BURNING 25% SLOWER than the average of the 4 other largest-selling brands testedslower than any of them - Camels also give you a smoking plus equal, on the average, to 5 EXTRA SMOKES PER PACK!
