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THE MESSENGER
UNIVERSITY OF RICHMOND
Edit o r-in-Chief
ALLISTER MACKENZIE
R i chmo nd C ollege Editor
ERNEST MOONEY, JR.
Westhampton College Co-Edit ors
ROSE KOL TUKIAN ANNE BYRD TUCK ER
Ass ociat e Edit ors
PAT VELENOVSKY LOUI SE WILEY
FRANCE S ELLI S
Fi ction Ed i t ors
PAT VELENOVSKY JOHN FIELD BATTE
LOUI SE WILE Y
N o n-Ficti o n Editors
JACK ZUBER JOHN CODD
JEN L EA GUTHRIE
Poet ry Editors
ROBERT PAINE FRANCE S ELLI S
FRANCE S KENNARD
Art Staff
ALBERT SALEEBY FRANCE S BEAZLEY
VOL. L DECEMBER, 1942 No. 2
A star shone in the sky. Like a sparkling rhinestone, it nestled between the folds of jet velvet clouds. There were other brilliants overhead, but none with the intensity, the reaching , searching rays of this one. For millions of years this star has been unparalleled in brilliance and importance on heaven and earth. Once a year, at Christmas time, it reaches its height, to remind the world of the wonderful birth that took place so long ago. This holiday eve, our star, arrayed in its daz zling gown, will send out as usual on slivers of starlight its messengers of guidance and good-will to the world But how many of us will heed or remember the whisperings of this symbol of Christmas spirit, amongst the glitter and artificiality in which we have enveloped ourselves? For many people Christmas lies in-the sparkle of lights-of jewels in the showcases-whether Uncle Dick is going to send you that $10 bill as usual-the impossibility
of Christmas without turkey and plum pudding and a blanket of snow to cover the earth. You will argue that these things are custom and tradition; true, but they alone have come to mean Christmas to far too many of us.
Christmas will be different this year. As the war brings us down to essentials in materials , it seems that to equalize this, the spirit should be the ascendant factor. Our Christmas star in recent years has had a difficult time competing against manmade stars , but this season, on commemoration of this Holy Birthday , the star , in its celestial radiance will be the sole reminder to thousands of the birth of Christ. Let its beams pierce through the bars of hate and selfishness and encircle us with the light of brotherhood and sharin g with one another.
As Christianity lives for us as b eing of a lastin g and enduring quality, so is the star eternally visible as a symbol of the true meaning of Christmas to those who care to gaze beyond the veneer of greed and materialism of your civili zation into the realm of true values. Yes , as always, the star will pierce the infinite blackness of the sky this Yuletide. May it also inject into the hearts of men here on earth , the light of fellowship and a spark of humble gratitude to our Father and Son above.
R.K.
Thumbnails
Friedenberg , a Junior , already known as a poet , writes again in his thought-provoking manner. Frances Kennard, a Junior with a poetic mind, thinks out loud about today. Ruth Smith, a Freshman and a newcomer, tells a timel y Christmas story . . . . Ben Rouzie , a Junior Journalist, characterizes again . . .. With much humor , Freshman Fishberg describes the typical colleg e girl's date Harold Brauer, radio announce r and playwright, presents a radio play in his distinctively dramatic style. . . . Jean Saperstine , Freshman, and new staff member , tells America t o wake up in a very unusual manner. Ernes t Mooney, Candidate for Uncle Sam ' s Army, contributes a Christmas story for his last issue. Betsy Rice, effectively describes Westhampton' s War drive in poetry and prose By his wellwritten review, Linwood Horne promises that ther e will be more from him in the future
[ 2]
ttOh ComeAll YeFaithful"
By RUTH SMITH, '46
660H,
Grandaddy, Look!" Peg pressed her turned up nose against a brightly lighted window. Her warm breath made a little circlet on the frosty pane. It was such fun to shop w ith Grandad on Christmas eve. Red and green l ights danced on the little tree in the ten-cent store window. Crowds of people were hurrying to do last minute shopping. A candle-lit wreath hung on the door of the bank. As Peg tucked her little m ittened hand under her Grandaddy' s arm and started on again she became serious.
" Miss Jones told us in school that even little girls can help to win this war, Grandaddy Do you s'pose Santa Claus would bring Jim and Daddy some more guns to fight with if I didn't ask for a n ew doll this year?"
"He might, Peg." A weary look stole into Mr. M iddleton ' s eyes. Even little Peg's Christmas lay in t he shadow of war. Christmas this year wouldn ' t be like it had been in the years before. He and M rs. Middleton would have Margaret and Peg and the baby with them for Christmas. Bill couldn't have given them a dearer daughter-inlaw. They had Polly, too, this year. He loved this g ay and charming granddaughter and would have li ked to keep her with him always, but, he was th inking now of her happiness. Polly's heart was in China with her own Mother and Dad and with Jim somewhere with England's R.A.F. Mr. Middleton sighed a sigh of regret and one of pride, too. He knew what a wonderful family he and M other Middleton had. They'd all be together ag ain next year.
Mr. Middleton lifted Peg up into the sleigh. Her l ap was piled high with interesting bundles. As sh e settled herself, Peg sniffed the crisp, cold air. I t was such a lovely Christmas eve. The stars sh one and the snow glistened. Bells jingled as the h orses trotted homeward.
Mr. Middleton reined in the horses and sat for a minute looking at the candle Margaret had set in the window. It was shining there, a sign of faith and hope. It was shining for Bill. How Bill would love to see Margaret and Peg tonight and play with that baby boy of his. As Mr. M . iddleton lifted
Peg down, Polly opened the kitchen door for them. The warm lights from inside made a pa t h on the snow.
Polly was taking her Grandaddy's coat for him, when other voices were heard in the yard. The door opened.
"Jim!" Polly flew toward him and for a moment both were oblivious to all about them. Jim lifted his head from the blonde curls where it had been buried and sniffed the air.
"Ummm! Turkey! It's been months, Mrs. Middleton, since I've smelled anything to equal that!" With one arm still around Polly's waist Jim went over and shook hands with Mr. and Mrs. Middleton.
Peg was skipping back and forth between Jim and the doorway crowing with glee, "Oh, Mother, come see who's here!" Margaret came to the door.
"Hello, Margaret! My it's good to see you again. How is Bill? Have you heard from him since he left in October?"
"No, Jim, I haven't." Margaret turned awayto peep at the pudding in the oven. It was only for a minute; then she was herself again.
"How have you been, Jim? We've missed you -especially Polly."
He laughed and looked down into the happy pair of blue eyes.
" Now you young folks get out of my kitchen! I'll have this dinner on the table in no time." Mrs. Middleton lifted the brown sizzling bird out of the oven.
Jim and Polly had disappeared into the parlor, while Margaret helped Peg light the Christmas candles on the table.
The table was like a picture from a book. Mother Middleton hadn't forgotten a thing that makes a per£ ect Christmas dinner. A hush £ell and everyone stood with bowed heads. Mr. Middleton began,
"Our Father, for our many blessings we are truly grateful on this Christmas eve. We pray Thy blessings upon all those who are less fortunate than we , upon those in war torn lands, and especi[ 3 )
ally upon our Bill this night. Bless this food to our use and us to Thy service. In Christ's name, Amen."
"Pull the wish bone with me, Jim."
"O.K., Peg."
"Oh, you have the wishing end! Shut your eyes, Jim, make a wish and don't tell anyone-ever."
Jim shut his eyes and reached for Polly's hand under the table. She knew his wish. Her heart beat faster and a little lump came into her throat.
"Well, folks, now that my wish is made, I have a wish for you. My wish-may you all live ever in
peace, plenty, and happiness." Polly looked up with joy and admiration in her face.
"Come on, Peg, let's open the gifts!" Polly pushed back her chair as she spoke and took the arm Jim offered her.
While everyone was wrapped in Peg's excitement, Polly slipped away. She stood for a moment at the front door. The air cooled her warm cheeks. A snow flake or two caught in her hair. Polly heard the faint chiming of steeple bells-
"O come all ye faithful, joyful and triumphant-"
Thoughts
By F. KENNARD, '44
Its silence haunts me yetWhere velvet shadows rested hand in hand beside a glossy lake
And beyond the mirrored depth, I saw the playful teasing of the stars
The sparkling motif was repeated by phosphorescent pine-tree points.
I thought-this sweet stillness discordant shouts by contrast with the clatt' ring world
And I fiercely questioned why-why Should moments such as these And weeks and months anq years Pass into the eternity, And why in Mighty Heaven ' s name Should men, the thousands, millions , Live and breathe and die, Become mere phantoms of the past.
* * * * * *
A star fell-the glistening surface records a flash of brilliant light It came and left-forever gone Yet-I recall it still.
CHINESELADY
By HARROL BRAUER, '43
• A horrific old legend turned into a play adapted for radio use.
ANNOUNCER:The scene opens in the drawingroom of the fashionable hotel at White Sulphur Springs where five men, nicely dressed, two of th em over fifty, the other three between thirty and fo rty, are comfortably seated in deep-cushioned ch airs. Around an open fireplace one of the men recalls an incident which occurred near the hotel only three days before. We hear him talking.
MAN: All of you remember what occurred at Lover's Leap the other day; how the young man an d his fiancee were strolling near th e edge of the cliff and after she dared him to climb a tall pine, th e limb broke, and he fell hundreds of feet below to his death. All of us agreed that it was a real tragedy, but only yesterday I found out some addi tional facts concerning the case. Would you care to hear about them?
OTHERSPRESENT:Sure, sure.
MAN: Well then, let's turn our thoughts to an old seaport town of ancient China, where for the first time in history the rulers of that country gave ho spitality to America. The first part of the story begins just as the flagship of the United States N avy has docked and the officers are preparing to go to a palace of the Chinese officials where these Americans have been invited as a gesture of goodwill.
(Sounds of activity aboard ship.)
LIEUTENANTANDERSON:We'd better hurry, Fred, if we want to go with the admiral. You know, it seems queer that these Chinks have invit ed us to their household. What do you make of it. ?
FRED: Oh, I don't know; but I've heard that th ese yellow-skins don't let any other nationality gaze upon their supposedly beautiful wives. I rea lly don't care though.
LIEUT.: Well, let's get going. Have you got everything you want to carry. We'd better take our 4 5's; never can tell what may happen while we're th ere.
( Music rises and falls.)
HIGH MANDARIN: (in Chinese accent.) We lcome to my humble dwelling, 0 brave fair-skinned gentlemen from far-away land. ( Chinese music in distance.)
ADMIRAL:Thank you, Your Highness. It's a pleasure to be here. We hope that this meeting will encourage good-will between your great country and ours forever.
HIGH M: That is exactly why we have invited you. Come, let us begin our meal; we can talk better there.
LIEUT.: (Aside with Fred.) Gosh, there's nothing phony with this bird. Look at those large vases over there, Fred. Look at that queer-looking idol over there in the corner with candles around it. This is surely some place.
FRED: Yeah, I don't like it though. I'm glad I brought my trusty old Colt .45 along. Something's queer around here. Makes you feel as if some mugs were hiding behind these curtains, ready to cut your guts out if you make a wrong move.
LIEUT.: Oh, there's nothing to be alarmed about. That noise we hear behind those curtains is probably coming from the Chinks' wives. Sounds as if they are trying to gaze upon us whitedevils without our seeing them. Can't you smell that perfume. Boy, if we got any closer the smell would more than likely knock us out or else make us dream we were in paradise. If only I could see one of the girls behind that silk.
FRED: Ralph, you've been reading entirely too many adventure stories lately; nothing like that happens in real life. You ought to know that. Come on or we won't get anything to eat.
(Music rise and fall.)
LIEUT.: That was some meal, wasn't it? I don't believe I recognized any of the food though.
FRED:I sure did enjoy it too. Well, it looks as if the Admiral is about ready to leave so let's get together all the things we brought. Looks as if we won't need our Colts after all. This place still gives me the creeps, though.
LIEUT: I'd like to come back here sometime just to find out the cause of the noise we heard behind
[ 5 J
the curtains over there. You never can tell, can you?
(Music rise and fall.)
ANNOUNCER:The scene shifts back to the ship where the officers have just returned from the reception given by the Chinese officials. Lieutenant Ralph Anderson and Lieutenant Fred Carlington, who share the same cabin, are undressing in order to retire.
FRED:I'm afraid I ate too much, Ralph. Or maybe they tried to poison me; wouldn't surprise me in the least.
LIEUT.: You' re just too suspicious. Why, I bet that these Chinese invited us to their palace because they wanted to join the U. S. and China together as brothers.
FRED: Brothers, nothing. They have some scheme up their wide sleeves, I know. You wait and see.
(Pause.)
LIEUT.: (In excited tone.) Fred, have you seen the bandana I had around my neck? I'm sure I wore it to the reception. It wasn't worth very much, but I'm sorry I lost it. Maybe it dropped from my neck after we got back. If I don ' t find it by tomorrow I'll go back to the palace to see if any of the Chinks found it there.
FRED: You just want some excuse to get back there so you can find out some of the mysteries. Now isn't that right?
LIEUT.: I can ' t hide anything from you, can I Fred?
(Knock on door.)
LIEUT : See who's there, will you Fred? ( Sounds of walking and opening of door.)
(Voice after door is opened.) Pardon, sir , but there's a young Chinese servant in a small boat alongside who keeps calling for Lieutenant Anderson Will you ask him if I should let the lad come aboard to see him?
LIEUT.: I heard what he said, Fred. Tell him to bring the Chink here. I wonder what he wants. I didn't know I had any friends in China. Might be one of my relatives. (Pause.)
LIEUT.: All right, all right. Come in. What do you want? Who are you? Where did you come from? Can't you speak English?
FRED: It looks like he wishes to give you that
package. He does. You'd better take it or he may get mad. Look, he's running away.
LIEUT.: Hey there. Wait a minute. Don't go. ... Well, he ' s gone .... I wonder what's in this bundle.
FRED:Well, look and find out.
LIEUT.: (Rattling of paper.) Why, it's my bandana with some embroidery on it. It's in writing This is crazy
FRED:What does it say?
LIEUT . : Let's see; it says come to the North entrance of the High Mandarin's palace tomorrow at seven o ' clock. It's signed with the letter L. Boy, this perfume nearly knocks you out.
FRED:I wonder who sent it. It may be a trap to hold you for ransom. Don't go, Ralph.
LIEUT.: I have to, Fred. Something unseen is compelling me to return; I don't know what it is , but I have to go.
FRED: All right. I'm ready. Let's go then.
LIEUT.: I'm going alone, Fred I don't want to get you in trouble.
FRED:But, Ralph ....
LIEUT.: I'm sorry, Fred, but I think it ' s best fo r me to see what all this is about alone.
FRED:All right, if that's the way you feel abou t it. I won ' t stand in your way. If you're not here by midnight, though, I'm coming after you.
LIEUT.: Thanks, Fred; I'll be all right. I guess I'm ready now See you later.
(Music rise and fall.)
ANNOUNCER: And so Lieutenant Anderso n went to the High Mandarin's palace. He arrive d back at the ship long before the time set by hi s friend Lieutenant Carlington to go in search fo r him The next day he went again. And the nex t day and the next. For one week he went every single afternoon at nearly the same time. Each night when he returned he went directly to hi s cabin and to bed. He did not associate much wit h the other officers. He did not even speak to the m when they passed him. He seemed engrossed in some important matter which needed his utmos t attention. His face usually had no expression whatever on it. Fred did not notice the change at first but when he did he became extremely worried, because he never had seen his best friend act in such a queer way ever before. Fred though t that Ralph would again return to his normal self shortly, but after another week and still no chang e he thought it best to question him and attempt t o [ 6]
determine the cause of the change. Fred found the opportunity to question him one day just after l unch when both were in their cabin. ( Music rise and fall.)
FRED: You know, Ralph, I haven't seen much of you lately. What have you been doing with yourself?
LIEUT.: Oh, I've been around.
FRED: Listen, Ralph, I know of a good restaur ant that serves genuine Chinese food in town. How about you and I going there tonight?
LIEUT.: I can't; I've already made another app ointment.
FRED:That's okay, Ralph; just thought I'd suggest something. . . . We leave here day after tom orrow, you know. I hope we can get together before we pull anchor.
ANNOUNCER: It had continued that way for many days. Everytime Fred tried to get close to Ralph, he found that something barred his way. W hat it was he did not know. This was the first time his pal did not confide in him. Fred was not only afraid of what may be the trouble but he d id not have any idea how this thing may end. It was too deep for him, so he finally decided to let things work out the best way they could. He knew h e would not be able to take his mind off the matter, however. On the night the ship was to leave th e Chinese port to return to the United States, Fred was reading a book in his bunk. He continued to look at his wristwatch since it was only about three hours before the ship was supposed to depart, and Ralph had not returned. Suddenly th e door to his cabin opened and in rushed Lieutenant Anderson. He staggered towards his bunk and fell down on it directly on his face. Every muscle in his body seemed to be quivering. Fred jumped up and stood over his companion's bunk n ot knowing what to do. Just as he was about to reach down and try to comfort Ralph, he turned over on his side.
LIEUT.: Oh, God, what have I done; what have I done? (Hysterically.) What'll I do? Why did I do it?
FRED:Here, Ralph, take this brandy; it'll make you feel better. (Sound of gurgling, heavy breathing.)
FRED:What has happened, Ralph? Where have you been? Tell me.
LIEUT.: Lord, Fred, I've been through what no
other white man has ever been through. (His voice gets a little calmer.)
FRED: Go ahead.
LIEUT.: Everything I'm about to tell you is absolutely true . . . . Do you remember the day that Chinese boy brought me my bandana that someone had embroidered?
FRED:Yes, I remember.
LIEUT.: Well, the message on that piece of cloth was from one of the wives of the High Mandarin. I went to her; we made love without any one else realizing I had ever been back there. I saw her every night. I was so hypnotized by her perfect untouched beauty that I guess I acted as if I was in a fog around here.
FRED: You ain't lyin' there son.
LIEUT.: Well, she seemed to like me because she had never seen a fair-haired person before, so we got along fine. Every night we saw each other; I hated to leave her. (Voice begins to tremble.) Tonight I went there as usual but something had happened. Some guards seized me as I entered and carried me to a large room with a huge throne at the far end. I was terrified for my life . . . but I soon found out that it was not I who was to suffer. The High Mandarin was sitting on the throne no one said a word. After I was brought in, he motioned to another guard at another door leading into the room. A minute or so later the guard brought her in, the girl I had made love to. They brought her near me . . . close enough for me to smell the penetrating perfume that surrounded her. Suddenly, the High Mandarin descended from his throne and came towards us. Without hesitating a minute he touched the neck of the gown she was wearing and ripped it from her smooth body. She did not resist. As she looked at me, the Mandarin took the dagger from my belt and cleaved her from the brow downward disembowelling her before my eyes it wa~ too horrible beyond words. He must have thrust the silver dagger back in my belt. Then I was thrown out on the street. . . . I don't remember how I got back here, but here I am . ... It seems even too fantastic for a dream but it really happened. (Scene shifts back to the hotel where the man is telling the story.)
MAN: And that is what brought on this tragedy. When the limb broke, that young man could have (Continued on page 17)
[ 7 ]
ChristmasFantasyfor An Atheist
By MARGARET CALLOWAY CLARK, '46
I walked through ghost-peopled streets
Unhappy-without aim
Until I met a man who said:
Come to the church of the Holy King and there
Find peace.
In my laughter was a sneer,-
But something shaped a silence where my voice
Had been And I, the unbeliever, followed this
Thin stranger to an old worn chapel where
A pitiful few, unconsci ~us of the candlelight that wove
A shifting pattern on the wall, were bent
Beneath the weight
O{ prayer.
- Bu !: , while I w atched, the frail warm sweetness of
Young voices carried me behind
The years;
I knelt with childish faith and love
Before the Christ and all around me great and small
Together poured their adoration at His feet.
I held the ageless moment in
My hand
And felt it pulse
With half-forgotten thoughts
Of life and truth.
That instant kept me company
Long after-through the twilight and The snow.
[ 8 J
Extree!Extree!
By JEAN SAPERSTINE, '46
EXTREE! EXTREE! U. S. DECLARES
WAR ON AXIS!" This is the call of a poor ragged newsboy. He stands on the busy street corner, dressed in miserable tatters t hat scarcely cover his red, numb limbs . His shoes are of old cloth with cardboard soles and his legs are minus stockings. The shoes somehow remain in tact through means of a dirty knotted string th at persists in coming untied. His trousers , baggy and torn at the bottom , spell poverty in the true sense of the word; for one can plainly see that th ey were never meant for so small a child. His sh irt , if you have the heart to call it that, is also in sh reds and as he walks the raveled sleeves part and expose the tiny, thin body beneath . On his h ead he has a cap It is a magnificent cap !-It is all checkered in red and blue with an extremely la rg e rim The cap is the pride of this child's life. Every now and then he removes it when greeting an old customer and grins. There is no other grin li ke his , for the wrinkles around his eyes almost cover them and his tooth that is missing produces a laughing space. Inside of this laughing boy is a heart, a heart so big that it would take in the whole world if it had a chance. This heart is what m akes that boy
Here he is, selling an extra paper that states, not on ly the war news at that moment; but the hardsh ips that we , the civilians , will have to endure. T his pathetically thin, undernourished paper boy is doing his best to tell America of the hardships to come. This small child is crying out to America, begging them to listen to him , imploring them to h eed his message, and begging them to buy his p apers; so that he may buy a small bit of comfort. Here is a child that has never had enough to ea t , trying to tell his country of the food shortage th at is to come. His paper lists sugar, coffee, meats, and fruits as foods that might be rationed. H e has never tasted such food , he is alway hungry. H e thinks that that empty feeling down inside is
natural, just as natural as a cold or a toothache and of these he has had many. Sometimes that feeling _gnaws at his stomach until he feels all numb. Once, when he was just a little child, he tasted ice cream. Once, he can remember that he had enough to eat. That was at Christmas time, when they gave out free dinners.
Inside of the smooth crisp sheets, just off the press , there is a paragraph on the fuel shortage. It tells America that it will have little fuel to burn in its home and almost none for its cars. Johnny, for that is his name , is always cold in the winter t ime. He lives in an old rain-soaked shack, down by the laundry, and it is never warm all winter long. Cold comes with win t er and winter is just another time in his life. Yes, it is all in his life . As for automobiles, Johnny just walks if he has anyplace to go. lt is cheaper that way.
Way down in the corner of page two there is half a column devoted to the shortage of woolen goods that is to come . Americans will have to make last year's do. But suppose you had no last year's, suppose you were like Johnny and hadn't had a last year's suit or a suit the year before? He has no heat in his shack and he has little food all year round, but still he stands on street corners, telling America to buckle down.
Johnny can do without in peace time, can we do half of that in war? Go ahead Americans, have your fun and shrug your shoulders at what Johnny ' s paper says. Johnny has the right to say, "I told you so"; but instead he remains faithful to his printed sheets. He is there today, on your corner, crying and beseeching you to listen to him--him, a child, a pauper that has nothing to sacrifice because he has given too much already. Does America need a pauper to bring the war into our homes? Wake up America and fight this war with every ounce of strength. Don't forget that child, that newsboy, Johnny.
TheWarrior
By MILTON D. FRIEDENBERG, '44
You'd say he was a giant of a man;
Six feet six, and every inch was solid
Bone and muscle. Not an ounce of fat
On that tall frame; built like a bull he was, With short, thick neck, and shoulders widewell, wide
As any pair of shoulders that I've seen.
Yes, he was big all right, and yet, you know,
He really was a gentle type of boy.
For that was truly only what he was-
A boy. I said he was a man because
He looked a man, but if you knew him well
You'd know he had a million boyish ways.
His hair was never combed exactly right,
And in his pockets, you could always find
Some kind of useless object that he'd saved
And meant to use, when he had found its place.
Just twenty years he was; twenty short, rich years
Have passed since first I heard his newborn wail,
And saw him, red and wrinkled, lying in
His mother's soft white arms. I thought, "Good God,
Is that my son? Is that mean thing the child
For whom my wife went through the hell of birth?"
But when I saw his mother ' s eyes, I knew
He was more beautiful than any god.
It's easy now for me to recollect
The first tooth that he cut; his first weak step;
The first word that he spoke, some silly word
Which had no meaning, but seemed fine to us.
I know the day that he first started school.
He didn ' t like the school, but when I told
Him that he had to go, he went ahead
Without complaint. Most boys complain of school,
But he believed that everything I made
Him do was right. I loved him with that love
That Abraham for Isaac must have felt.
He grew and grew, and every week it seemed
He had outgrown another pair of pants.
He wasn't smart at school, but he wasn't dumb;
He could take you in the woods, and there he'd show
You a ll the kinds of birds and plants and trees.
He loved the woods. He loved the quiet dark
Beneath the many trees, and there he'd sit
And think for hours about the whole, wide world.
He told me once, that when he had grown up
He'd take a trip around the world and back; He wanted to find out just what was what. He went to college when he finished school; If he had stayed, he'd be a senior now,
But when the war broke out, he told me this-
That if I wanted him to stay in school
He'd do it, but I knew his heart wou ld not
Be there. And so I told him, "Son, you go
And win this war. Go, give 'em hell, and when
The war is done, why then come back, and start
Your life again, where last you dropped it off."
He went. I missed him then. I miss him now.
Last night I got a telegram that said That he was killed in action overseas.
He 1•ved in action, so I guess that it
Was only fitting he should die the same.
FROMWHERE I AM
By ERNEST MOONEY, '43
66]FROM where I am , here on top of Christm a s Eve, I can almost see it all , the whole thing . In America , I can see the black per£ection of a negro as he whips up the mules pulling a wagon fu ll of people over the dusty , red roads of North Carolina, and the disciplined motor of a Buick as it pulls its share of a family reunion. I can see t he hundreds of store workers getting off from work tonight , completely refreshed with the idea of Christmas , its joys, hurrying Christmas treew ard , tirelessly, energetically, ready to drink and celebrate. I can see the great footed throng, getting nowhere, but internally moving and milling and gradually thinning. I see the envious M.P , who couldn't get Christmas leave, staring vacantly a t the civilian crowd, eternally on duty to crack t he first capricious skull , but humanly willing to exchange his arm band for a quart of whiskey or Christmas Eve at home. In a ha zy-blue, upstairs room, six men with animal spirits play poker; in a roadside tavern, young and old couples drink go lden beer; and a young boy and g irl have re ached the climax of their adolescent love affair in a near-by tourist camp. Following the crowd th er e is an ugly, distorted man who has plenty of money, but no one to spend it on, no one to please . . . and of all the other nights, this one is his lo neliest. There is a happy man , filled with last minute bundles, with surprises and expecteds for th e whole gang. The A.B C. store is jammed with as many different classes, stations , and personali ties as there are people, but each one belongs to the same type of celebrator, each one is looking fo rward to his own peculiar di zziness and gradual sinking of consciousness. Outside of this carnival of emotions , an open field lies in the tender moonlight, no people for miles, but still anyone could tell it's Christmas Eve, just by the way the field lo oks Back inside the city, in the suburbs , a group o f young, church-going Christians find time to catch the greetings and well-wishes of a few old and we ll -loved couples in exchange for Christmas carols I can see a little boy , aslee p he ' s been mean as hell for eleven months this year, but since D ecember started, he's been good enou g h to satisfy
his Santa Claus, and downstairs, glistening balls, silver tinsel, a green, good -smelling fir tree, candy, and enough other junk to keep him happy till New Year's Day, are waiting for him. On the seaboard, a patrol plane drones; its pilot wishes old "Bess" a Merry Christmas. Below him , the endless, restless, moon-filtering sea stretches to disaster and sorrow and hunger. In England, the battered buildings shout old English carols to a misty but happy city, the last outpost of rejoicing Outspoken Norwegian ballads ring and twist in the fjords, and are thrust down the uncomfortable throats of occupation troops. Defiant Dutch voices creep somehow into the so-well -guarded rooms of Nazi officers; Belgian women wonder how many more Christmases there will be like this one; the French soul trembles in anticipation; Spain gasps and struggles to celebrate, not knowing why, exactly; in the Vatican, the Pope, quietly robed, at peace with God and himself , prays for fairer times, for Italy ' s release and sanity , for peace; Quietly , inauspiciously, good Germans celebrate a subdued Christmas, ceaselessly praying for the speedy return of their sons from the blood of the Wes tern Front , refusing , in spite of their Leader ' s words , to pray for victory. In a hundred little communities all over Europe, hungry and cold people, just people , sweep aside the dust that armies have fought over for centuries, creep back into 'homes,' and wonder if there will be any more of the brotherhood their Savior taught about. And to the north, somewhere away from all untrustworthy people, a silly little characteristic moustache twitches in fear. In Russia, they know Christmas is here , but their hands are at work, they can't be used for celebration as long as there is one single Na zi throat to wrap them around, but they know Christmas is here. Down across the Mediterranean, a man forgets Christmas, as a useless weapon of the weak (he heard that somewhere) all he can do is look to his right and left and wish there were something he could do . Thousands of miles of people know nothing about Christmas-they have nothing to do tonight but £ear the approach
(Cont i n11ed o n p age 17)
[ 11 J
OURPROFS
IT always gets around which are the crip courses and which teachers tell the best jokes or which ones are the easiest to apple polish. Also upperclassmen will warn you-"Don't take him, you'll be lucky if you make a D." But of some they say--Dr. Woodfin, Oh, she is a real professor.
"If anybody had been reading over your last test papers they would have thought that every last one of you came from Virginia. Does anybody know who James Otis is? Well, look him up." "Miss Brown, will you open that window at the side. I hope you're not cold."
You remember Miss Woodfin by the way she speaks. Sitting with her feet crossed unobtrusively under her desk she will start on an idea. Even if it is only a casual idea she always speaks deliberately and distinctly, using the exact word to fit the occasion. If she warms up to her idea she will accent her words, hitting the desk with the edge of her tense and open right hand. Then, when she has put across her point she will finish with a soft "you see." She believes in history that has been brought down to the present. Sometimes she stops short with "Now what made me talk about this." She teaches the philosophy of history-and expects the students to get the facts of history.
Dr. Woodfin takes off a blue jacket and is ready to teach her philosophy of American History.
"You know, I never get cold teaching ."
A smile begins in her blue eyes and lights up her face. You can see that she has been teaching for about two decades-time enough for a keen mind to grow keener-time enough for some grey hair.
"Do any of you know what the British Common Law is? Well, Miss Smith-what prevents me from taking your sweater. It's blue and you know I like blue. It's my favorite color. Well, you needn't be ashamed for not knowing it. You usually know what you were brought up to know. I remember one day being in Dr. ' s class in Chicago and he asked the class what day it was, and I answered: Oh, this is the day that Lee surrendered at Appomatox. The class all looked around at me and thought I was so wise, but Dr.
- --only said that I came from the south and didn't have to learn that."
Dr. Woodfin goes on to describe the British Common Law System and the class is taking down under a long list of recommended books these further notes. Then she discusses new books.
"Our American journalists have done a superb job of reporting the European front. I would enjoy reading them if I had the time. I don't read them myself. I read a page or two and the review of their works. Of course in the classroom we go right to the root of things whereas a journalist can get only the flavor. I would like you to learn how to enjoy reading history . Everyone should read some novels. Of course the truth in history is the greatest romance there ever was."
The class is tolerant of Miss Woodfin ' s recommendations, having the week before been asked to learn the Constitution by heart. With a twinkle in her eye she had admitted that she was too old for that sort of thing but insisted that we were young enough. To one skeptical student she pointed out : (Continu ed on p age 17)
[ 12 ]
WITH GABRIEL
By BEN ROUZIE, '44
WHEN they came into the little downtown Philadelphia bar , timidly dressed among the sleek regular patrons of the p lace , I knew the two girls were not looking for a pick-up. You can usually tell. These girls, like me, had come to the place because it offered some of the best jazz in the East. And that was why , when they had looked around and found all the wall-booths occupied , I invited them to sit down in mine.
Politely they refused. They seemed embarrassed standing between the bar and the booths , and the bl onde was all for leaving. The brunette , though , was listening to the music and quietly arguing t h at somebody would leave in just a minute and th at then they could sit down. But the blonde won, it seemed, and they were moving toward the d oor when a couple got up out of one of the booths and left the place. Eagerly the two girls sat down and glanced about to see who had been w atching them. I looked away before they saw me , I think.
But I watched them for several minutes while th e four colored boys improvised slow blues , and I knew then that they had not come for anythin g bu t the music. You can identify a jazz lover by his fa cial expression when the ja zz is authentic.
T hen , during a particularly original trumpet solo , I forgot the girls and concentrated only on the unpretentious music of the Southland and its four d evoted exponents who were playing so well to such a small audience in the quaint alley-street of downtown Philadelphia . f f f
With the solo a thing gone, however, a bit of creative art spilled like wine into the dust, I th ought again of the girls They must, I thought, h ave been a bit wary of entering the darkened, arr oyo-like street to reach this place. The waiter brought them beer then, and I was surprised; but I knew when they took the first sip of it that I had been right. I called the waiter.
" Do you have Coca-Cola? '_'I asked him.
" No Coca-Cola left, sir. Not even birch beer. Anything else for you , sir? "
I had been right. I congratulated myself on this bit of deduction.
One of the girls was approaching my booth, and as she stopped, standing stiffly away from the table, I rose and smiled hospitably
" Do sit down, " I invited 'Tm really not a wolf -just afflicted with swing "
She smiled . The girl was not at all gauche, merely a bit embarrassed.
" Yes , of course, " she said. " I know that. I came over to apologize for brushing you off just now. Won ' t you come over with us?"
Several minutes later they were still wincing at every sip of beer, while we discussed such swing musicians as Armstrong , Beiderbecke, Hawkins, Goodman and Berigan, deploring the prevalent commercialism in white swing and speaking with contempt of the inevitable "jitterbugs " On the subject of music , at least-even tastes in classical music-we agreed on every note. But from music the conversation went to other tastes and principles.
"They don't ask questions about age when you order beer here, " I observed. "You didn ' t have any trouble, did you?"
I had reckoned they were not older than nineteen
"I haven't had that kind of trouble for a long time," the blonde said . 'Tm twenty-three ."
Disregarding her clothing and make-up , I decided it was probably true. Her eyes were young , her coiffure simple; but there were vertical lines about her mouth and oblique hints of folds in her neck that are hard-bought at nineteen .
The conversation went on to art-the Pennsylvania Institute of the Fine Arts had a new exhibit -on to travel , literature, religion.
The blonde was Roman Catholic, the brunette and I were Protestant. We discussed the benefits of each type of religion and how individual temperaments should determine religious affiliation, the three of us talking quietly, the brunette and I ignorantly. The blonde , however, quoted Schopenhauer and Hume and the Old and New Testa( Co n ti n ued on page 17)
[ 13]
TheW. C. of W. C.
By BETSY RICE, '44
Some, wild, woolly playthings concocted for boys Hold first place, it seems, among Westhampton's toys.
And the profs - why, my dears, are they bad or just mad?-
They play with 'em, too, and delight in the fad!
There's some strange connection 'twixt ribbon that grows
And a huge bomber plane with a shiny glass nose. It's a coloring job that gals can't wait to do,
Yet the rules say they must if they want to be true.
There's fight in the thing, for the lassies by classes , Compete to collect from the masses some passes
Which excite toy barometers to such a degree
That they shoot up in red as though storms were at sea.
(The '44 gauge in her own " baro" meter Informed me she felt she'd be hailed as the beater.)
Most games which need teamwork have captains and coaches, Westhampton for hers has found no reproaches.
A lady named Lillian, Doc Lough, and Dean Lucas
Direct with a will that would startle Confucius.
Nor are they the "onlies- " the "vars'ty committee"
Designs with them plans which are praised through the city.
There's Molly, there's Ruthie,
There's Rose, and there's Boothie.
There's also Bee-Jay And Miss Coghill, P.A.
There are Louise and Shell
And two Betty's known well.
Shirley, Doris, and Pam
End the list with a wham!
But the best part of all, they've surely shown me,
Is that the whole school is the team and must be For the game can be lost, though we've excellent leaders.
The winning depends upon you and me, readers! Dawgonnit ! I guess you've guessed what I've been gabbing about in the above ditty, and all the time, I was hoping to get people to wondering so that they'd work to find out for themselves Well , I'm glad you know , anyway . It is a great game, isn't it? And that of the Westhampton War Council is a great work, too. No kidding , they ' re doing lots more than sticking pledge cards under our noses and wearing pretty, patriotic pinafores. This group, a branch from the Y.W., by the way, is really working out a purposeful and meaningful program that will count positively in the winning of our war-and it is our war.
Did you know that arrangements had been made to prevent waste everywhere on the campuswith your cooperation? That forums and discussions will be revitali zed- with your cooperation? That classes in nutrition, first aid , home nursing, and possibly even motor mechanics might be organized-with your cooperation ? That the entertainment of soldiers here on the campus may be possible - with your cooperation? That we might break up this Hiro-Hitler clique-with your cooperation?
Lending money with which to purchase that good-looking pursuit plane is probably easier than giving away time. But the things we learn as we do are so useful that our generation jumps ahead in practicality.
They ' re such little things, but they need so much to be done The War Council and Uncle Sam and Miss Liberty put them up to us . But it's still our game, team . Fight 'em!
Last Train from Berlin.
By Howard K. Smith, New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1942.
Reviewed by Linwood T. Horne, '44
To those college men who doubt that college dormitory bull sessions ever serve any real purpose, or stir any deep passions to remedy the world's problems, let them be ref erred to this very readable book of Mr. Smith's, which the press notices hail as a worthy successor to Bill Shirer' s " Berlin Diary." The author admits that he and his college friends, "an unofficial fraternity of penniless students," filled the atmosphere of many a study room with pipe smoke and weighty words -arguing about the new, then novel government of Germany, whether it was workable, if it afforded solutions to problems we had in America, whether it necessarily meant war-in short-was Nazi Germany a good thing or a bad thing.
Consumed with this desire to see these things for himself , Mr. Smith, a 1936 graduate fresh out of college, finds himself a "one-man fact-finding commission" aboard a cargo boat bound for Europe in quest of factual knowledge concerning Hitler's new Germany.
The first impressions, he relates, were captivating. Germany was an overwhelmingly attractive country, a clean, neat, truly handsome land, but there followed a more specific impression-that of uniforms and guns, showing the amazing extent to which Germany even then was prepared for war.
The author of "Last Train" begins his story with a personalized history which serves to make clear to the reader just what points he is driving toward. That attitude which he assumes is good, for it tends to break down any newly arisen prejudices which Americans may have for the common German people. "The friendliness and overwhelming hospitality of Germans to Americans was phenomenal," and at several points the author takes time out to emphasize this fact.
This intended leisurely fact-finding tour of Mr. Smith's was trammeled up in all the swift events of the fall of 1939, but instead of ending his period of observation, the war proved to be a
channel for increasing them, the author becoming a United Press correspondent, attached to the staff in Berlin. From this vantage point, he is thus able to view the whole scene of passing events and record the sweeping changes which have taken place in Germany since the beginning of the war, and especially since the start of the Russian campaign.
In tracing the progress of the "Hitler Myth" in the eyes of the author, one is astounded at postWorld War I conditions in Germany, and draws the very obvious conclusion that the rise of any leader who could deliver the German folk from these deplorable circumstances was insured, whether his name be Hitler or something else. The myth began to rise to alarming proportions in the minds of Mr. Smith and his associates as they reported the results of the myth at work, and the very immenseness of this myth which we have to deal with as our enemy, begins to pervade the reader's mind with each fresh page.
By numerous touches on the life of the civilian population, it is to be seen that morale inside Germany has greatly slipped. Their many victories on the continent kept the home front well stocked with the necessities for life, and this well stocked larder proved the binding point for German conquest. But after the outbreak of Hostilities with Russia, it was a different story. The High command fell behind in its "schedule" for conquest, and as the casualties mounted, there began to be noticed a "psychological impatience" for the end of the war. The campaign began to make itself more materially felt than any of the others had done. "Little items, little amenities" began to disappear from the shops and the larger items were growing scarcer. The number of letters returned to their senders, marked "Fallen," in red ink, were on the increase, and then for the first time a new note began to creep into the press, concerning the inhuman warfare that the Russians were waging. The press resorted to trick photos , such as pictures showing dozens of dead bodies of Soviet civilians that had been killed by the retreating Bolsheviks. These were later exposed as photographs taken back in 1920 in the Russian Civil War!
[ 15]
German morale has slipped badly downhill, and is being rushed on to a swifter decline by the continued resistance of a Russian Army that was supposed to have been annihilated.
The author states convincingly that "the German people have grown calloused to the reports of captured towns and advance of armies. " It is his observation that the German people are interested only in a decisive victory which will bring the war to a close.
Each page is seemingly filled with interesting points from which issue unusually keen reasonings. One figure that will stick in the mind is the describing of Hitler ' s Reich as " a fine looking , fat apple with a tight , red , shiny skin, which is rotten at the core. The strong polished skin is the army and the Gestapo , which has become the main constituent of the Na zi Party. It is a strong , very strong cover . The rotten inside is the whole fabric
of Nazi Society If and when the big red apple is ever pierced, it will stink to high heaven " Mr. Smith reveals his personality at many points in the book , and one pictures him to be the familiar type of young reporter. His suggestions for beating the Nazis a nd winning the peace are finely drawn and do credit to his study of the subject. " Last Train" is not a thin-air, vague sort of analysis of the situation. There are some few scrambled and disassociated ideas , but for the most part , the subject is strikingly presented , and will certainly fling a challenge at the head of the reader. One feels as if he has been on the very scene , gathering those facts for himself, and is one of the " informed" as a result of his effort. For a wealth of fact on the conditions along the streets that lead by Herr Hitler's palace , "Last Train From Berlin " will be an exciting pocketguide storehouse.
Camouflage
By DOROTHY ANN FISHBERG, '46
Sally Marie is a pert college girl ; An eager new freshman is she.
Her dresser drawer ' s full of new sweaters and skirts , Her mind , of the good times to be
Now , Sally Marie is a pretty youn g thing , Her complexion ' s like peaches and cream; Her smile is as bright as the sunshine itself; The boys all agree she ' s a dream
Sally Marie is a happy young lass , And she knows she's a fortunate girl; She's determined to study as hard as she can , But she ' s caught in a sociable whirl.
Thus Sally Marie is a popular girl; Her bu zzer keeps ringing away. Let's go visit her now . It's some Saturday ni g ht , The close of a busy school day.
Sally Marie's room ' s a terrible sight; There a re clothes strewn all over the floor , For Sally Marie ' s got a big date tonight; He's a tall football hero, what's more.
Sally Marie dons her saddles and socks, Her fuzzy soft pink "Sloppy Joe. " And doesn ' t that pleated plaid skirt hit the spot ? She's collegiate--but def'nitely so!
With a brush she unmercifully tugs at her curls ; "Oh dear, will this never look right?
" Bill says he just hates girls who're never on time , " But my hair-it will take me all night!"
Then it's on with the lipstick , and on with the paint , And on with a large velvet bow ; Till Sally Marie looks like something she ain't , And at last she is ready to go
But Bill never knows of the hours that were spen t In the making of beauty so rare.
He is sure that she simply was born just that way ; This blond Southern belle who ' s so fair
Only too soon will the fun all be p a st , And the grind of the school week begin. But there are only six days till next Saturday night , When another male heart she will win.
[ 16}
Chinese Lady
(Continued from page 7) saved himself, I believe, but instead he gladly gave his life rather than be haunted for the rest of his life about that affair in China. He was just twenty years old. I truly know that any of us would have gla dly changed places with him. To prove part of what I have told, here are the dagger and the ha ndkerchief which played important roles in that true story.
From Where I Am
(Continued from page 11)
of war, hate infidels, or make tents But China has something to do; wet, sloppy rice fields, the smell of years of death, the strength of millions-all /low through the veins of China. To the East, ther e lies a country which has desecrated the symbol of morning, and in it, there are many who live only to die, those who wish their country were no t fighting, and those who sweat and turn white -ev en tonight-in dictatored war factories. Then the re is the vast sea again, stretching farther this time, stretching to life and exultation and feasting America, where millions are shelving death in order to celebrate, where tomorrow they will thi nk of fighting and fighting in order to keep on celebrating and seeing that their children will celebrate later. Yes, from up here on top of Christmas Eve, I can almost see it all.
had not made the boner and yet still wondering if they had.
With a grin Dr. Woodfin reminds them:
"Never mix your drinks in history-it's fatal."
The class laughs but remembers that no one would ever acuse Dr. Woodfin of mixing error and prejudice with the truth. To her may be applied her epithet for another professor.
"One of the finest tributes ever given to a professor, none of his students ever had to unlearn anything he taught them."
With Gabriel
(Continued from pag e 13) ments. She talked quite intelligently.
From religion the conversation went easily to marriage. The blonde was married, had been married for three years. And what did she think of marriage? Did she have any children? Did she love her husband? She thought marriage was a rational proposition. She had one child, a twoyear-old girl. She did not love her husband.
"Please don't think me too personal," I said, "but do you know why you married your husband?"
She said she did.
"Do you love your child?" I asked her.
She loved her child "more than anything else in the world," but she seemed reluctant to speak of plans for the child's future . This, I thought, was quite unlike the enthusiasm of other parents I had
Our Profs known. But she talked gracefully of her husband.
(C o n ti nu ed fr om pag e 12)
"We were brought together by mutual tast~s,"
" Miss Jones , you think I am a fool to ask you to she told me, "and I guess it's mutual tastes that learn the Constitution by heart, but the Constitu- holds us together. It isn't the child. My husb~nd tion is the basis of our government." doesn't . .. "
Speaking further about our country ' s policies, She stopped as the lad with the trumpet began she says, ad libbing once more, and then she stitched other "Issues in history are not made over night. interests into the conversation so that her domestic Fra nklin Roosevelt went to school to Woodrow life was covered up by trivial observations and Wi lson." opinions. The brunette helped her do this, I While we are puzzling over this she reminds us, thought, but perhaps I was wrong.
" The roots of freedom usually go far back." Until 2 a .m., the Philadelphia curfew, we With remarks like these, the class has begun to listened to the four Negroes as they improvised see and wonder over the "romance of history. " pure New Orleans jazz. Then the musicians T hen Miss Woodfin has come to speak again of stepped from the low bandstand, the bartenders our tests that she has just returned. began sloshing out the draught sinks behind the
" One student told me that Patrick Henry in St. circular bar, the patrons loafed slowly out through Jo hn's Church declared, "If this be trea~~:m,give the only door. I offered to take the girls home. me liberty or give me death. " : ·No, " said the blonde. "No, thanks. My busThe class burst out laughing-relieved that they band will take us. That's him with the trumpet. "
[ 17]
More than ever
the milder, better-tasting, cooler-smoking cigarette
Again Chesterfields are out front with their bright and unusually attractive Special Christmas Cartons. Send them to the ones you're thinking of. their cheerful appearance says J wish you A Meny Christmas, and says it well and in side, each friendly white pack says light up and enjoy more smoking pleasure.
