LookingForward
As plaster crumbles from a wall to leave The room)s encaging frame so dry and bare-So introspective thoughts can shear away The fiesh that cautiously protects the soul Exposing thoughts as old as time.
w,hat am I really?
A person ? Mechanism , ?-Mere Reactions to the time or place?
What weight-
So powerful yet so minute-can sway The balance from the man to the machine?
It must be that illusive 1nargin which
Divides reality from nothingness And freedom from the living death Of non-existence.
Perhaps the word Fm groping for is God.
By PEGGY CLARK.
THE MESSENGER
UNIVERSITY OF RICHMOND
Editor-in-Chief
FRANCES KENNARD WOLF
Richmond College ' Editor
WILLIAM RHODENHISER
Richmond College Business Manager
HENRY STAGLIEDER
Richmond College Staff
RALPH NOONKESTER WILLIAM BOWDLER
Westhampton College Editor
ELLEN MERCER (LARK
Westhampton College Associate Editors
JULIA WILLIS JEAN SAPERSTEIN
Westhampton College Bttsiness Manager (To be appointed)
IVesthampton College Assistant Bmin ess Man ager
KATHERYN MUMMA
Westhampton College Staff
LOTTIE BLANTON TWYLA Jo NEWHOUSE
Cover by HARRIET PATTERSON
VOLUME LI FEBRUARY, 1943 NUMBER 3
II . races out Unto the edge of the skies And there it tears the clouds with wild and slender fingers. And where it touches palest blue shows through."
JULIA WILLIS.
THE end of anything is merely the signal for another beginning. Just as a fin-de-siecle is an apology for a dying century and a cradle for a new one, so these in between qionths, too late for Winter and too soon for Spring, are a time of re-evaluation.
This is much more a time of resurgence than New Year's Eve which only sings a hectic swansong of the old. Besides being a herald of sunbaths and summer vacation, the Spring is a new opportunity-another chance to ask the old questions and see if new answers come back.
Here we stand as students at the end of a semester and at the beginning of a new year. Take out your old ideas, shake them, hang them in the Spring sun, and see how they look.
This is not to be a moral lesson but only a question. We think we've packed this issue with questions. What does the individual think? how does the individual act? how is he wrong? where is he r ight? These are questions for you, the Individual, to answer. Come back like the wild geese with new life and a promise.
JULIA WILLIS
FROMWHENC
PREFACE
My acknowledgements to all scnolars who have done fine academic work on the subject of a world faith. They have presented a clearer insight to the religions of the world, leaving on top in my mind, the immediate futility of such an idea. Through the evolution of an everchanging Man, the centuries may find it probable. Probable with special emphasis on tolerance, understanding, and universal effort. Probable only if relieved of dogmatism, instability, exclusive tradition, and blind acceptance. Ignorance must be replaced by inquisitiveness. And direction.
"God, though this life is but a wraith Although we know not what we use, Although we grope with little faith, Give me the heart to fight-and lose
Ever insurgent let me be, Make me more daring than devout; From sleek contentment keep me free , And fill me with a buoyant doubt.
Open my eyes to visions girt With beauty and with wonder litBut let me always see the dirt, And all that spawn and die in it.
Open my ears to music; let Me thrill to Spring's first flutes and drumsBut never let me dare forget The bitter ballads of the slums
From compromise and things half done Keep me , with stern and stubborn pride. And when, at last, the flight is won, God, keep me still unsatisfied."
-LOUIS UNTERMEYER, Prayer.
[ 2]
OMETHMY HELP"
.... JINX THOMPSON
THE water was still slate grey. That blackwhite color common only to the sea, and maybe to the feathers found on the broad back of a pheasant. Sometimes the New York Times had captured this off-shade·too-after being crwnpled up in a rain soaked gutter overnight. Above the gutters, the sidewalks of the town, and my mind wandered about New York. My eyes saw only the sea. It was without brilliancy, but not dull. My imagination could have tinted it, but then, the sun would soon be up. It would probably be hot, too. June is known to usher in the torrid season of our year, and on its eleventh day here in the South Pacific, its functions were by no means in ill repute .
There was that consistent nudging against me again! Mr. Wool wine was such a restless sleeper
An unjust criticism no doubt. Two days in a life boat were not exactly soothing to the strongest of constitutions. Even I had stayed awake all night. I brought my gaze from the water and let it rest upon my next-door-neighbor's countenance He was not a man I would have chosen as an exciting acquaintance, but war, torpedoes, and a small rubber raft had fixed my present circle of friends around me. It was our world, our community, our functioning body for how long we knew not. There must be lots of Mr. Woolwine's in the world. There was a great, big NO written across his face, losing its negation only in the drooping lines of his chin. There must be some explanation for his unstable dogmatism. Maybe I would find it today when I knew him better. The sun was beginning to rise, and with it several sleepers beg an to awaken also. I could tell Mr. Woolwine was ready to yawn, so I looked the other way. What met my eye seemed to be an individual variety of faces and a multitudinous selection of clothes. Not only that-we were white, yellow, and black. Mostly white. The big black man and the little yellow man were the only representatives of their societies. Joe, the former, was crowded in close association with us due to the incapacities of the raft, and for the same reason we were crowded in upon the exclusive Mr. Sujin. The rising sun was higher now, and my appetite was stalking me again. I
wondered which tin we would open next, and I couldn't seem to remember whose turn it was to distill the water. Anyway, I supposed Dr. Ingraham would know-he sat at the bow of the raft, and usually looked out for us all. I liked Dr. Ingraham. All of us did, except maybe Mr. Sujin, who had no use for his strong gentleness. Strange man, Mr. Sujin, and very smart.
Of course, Rev. Blanchard would very strongly disagree with me on that last part of my deductions. Mainly because Mr. Sujin wouldn't close his eyes while this well-meaning gentleman was offering prayers. He, too, was awake now, and as we ·were almost ready to eat, he bowed his head, immediately looked skyward, and began-"Dear God, our fa-ther." We bowed our heads with him, and were only disturbed in our attitudes by the "Amen" punctuations of Mr. Emeritus T. Board, who thought to second the prayer, if he couldn't pray one of his own. Mr. Board's interpolations also served to completely arouse the only other occupants who remained dormant. Mr. Brister looked as if he were having a nightmare, but being polite about it, while Mr. Inge hastily pulled himself together, and joined in because he probably thought it was the thing to do. Mr. Inge reminded me of a James Thurber "funny dog." You knowthat "O, I'm lost in a land of cats" look. Mr. Brister was much stronger. A man who relied completely upon himself, and needed nothing, absolutely nothing, of an outside force to sustain him. He greatly impressed Mr. Inge, but then, Mr. Inge was impressed with anyone who was strong in his convictions. It was safer that way. Both Mr. Board and Rev. Blanchard had, by now, added their final "Amens," and the food was meted out. Soon, I guessed, it would be too hot to eat. My opinion of water was changing, too. As I looked over the vast amount around me, it no longer appeared refreshing and cooling. I could only think of it as being a gorgeous place for a Max Beerbohm hero to drown himself over his love for Zuleika Dobson. Circumstances often push one's mind into screwy channels, y'know? If they probe, and push out the staleness, though, I suppose it's all for the best. ( Co11tim1edon page 13)
[ 3 J
SpringWind
• Behind the grey clouds thrown across the sky A mad wind runs
And makes them race and rise.
TI~ It drops
Leans heavy on the tall black pine, Falls over the top
Ands pirals down with a rush to run along the ground.
It fingers the winter grass, bending damp and grey
with pale green rising slyly at the roots.
It bumps a ragged strip of dirty snow,
Leaps over the driveway And runs low Jf/ith shadowed ripples
Across the silver mirror of the melted snow.
· Then rising on its toes it pirouettes, Leaps up
...the rose grey maples click and sigh as it goes by.
Flying,
whirling, races out
Unto the edge of the skies.
And there it tears the clouds with wild and slender fingers. And where it touches palest blue shows through.
By JULIA WILLIS.
TheIntruder
By JOEL HARNETT
66JUST half a cup, Lem. Watch how you're holding that pitcher. Lemuel, Lemuel! Now you've done it! Coffee all over the table cloth. Sakes alive, what's wrong with you?"
"I, I " The pitcher rolled out of his hand and fell upon the table with a muffled thud. The butter was swimming in coffee, and pools of the liquid formed on the table dripped down the side of the table. Lemuel buried his face in his hands. He was deathly silent.
Martha looked at him for a minute. Then she put her hand on his head and whispered, "You mustn't be so broke up over it, Lem. It wasn't your fault what happened last night; it- wasn't mine; it wasn't Mary's. It was just the shock We've had some bad luck, now we just have to make the best of it, that's all, we just have to make the best of it." She leaned back in her chair , watching the brown stream of coffee form and slide off the edge of the table. Sometimes it splattered and sometimes big drops clung to the leg of the table as they slid downward.
"Martha," he said, "Martha, I've got to. . . . "
The words stirred her. She leaned toward him, "Don't talk about it, Lem, Don't say a word. We had enough last night to last us a long time, a long time."
"Martha," he persisted, "I was wrong last night. I was wrong. I see it clear enough now. Mary's a good girl. I shouldn't have yelled, I shouldn't have--hit her." His voice broke. "Can she ever forgive me? 0, Martha!" He dug his face into his hands again, and tears seeped through his fingers and rolled downward.
Martha began to speak again, with resignation and quiet courage "The city was too big for her. It wasn't all her fault. But we have to help her and give her a chance. We can't let her down now. She's our Mary. . . . " She began to weep softly. "And we have to look after the baby. We just have to!"
Lemuel put his hands on the table; closed them; opened them. His jaw was firm, almost defiant, although his eyes, almost hidden by small taut
[ 5]
wrinkles, showed his torturing mental anguish.
"Martha, I've got to tell. . . . "
"There aren't any buts about this." Martha was recovering her composure. She righted the pitcher firmly. "We are going to care for the baby. He he'll probably be as good as anybody in the family. Looks like Mary. Why, sakes alive, Lem, it'll be just like having Mary young again!" Avoiding Lem's eyes-he didn't have the courage to interrupt her-she began to clear up the mess on the table. •
Suddenly Lem reached out and caught her shoulder. "Martha," he said, "listen to me. Remember what I said last night just after Mary · came home?"
"You said a lot of things, Lem. You were tired and disappointed. We forgive you for that."
Lem's voice was a harsh whisper. He seemed to lack the energy to speak. "I kissed her when she came in. She looked so pretty. But when she told me about the baby, I went blind. I couldn't see or realize or feel what I was saying or doing. Our family, our honor . . . I just couldn't see, Martha. It wasn't Mary's fault. I had to hit her I had to do something. I had to If we didn't have that damn intruder, damn, damn, intruder."
The muscles in Lem's neck were tightening and his face becoming livid. "Don't talk about it Lem . Don't work yourself up. It doesn't do any good. It was God's way. It is done. And we can't change what God has done."
Martha ' s pleading checked the tirade. There was a still, sullen quiet in the room. The coffee streams formed long brown lines on the linoleum floor.
Lemuel tilted his head toward Martha. He looked squarely at her. Martha's calm blue eyes gazed kindly at Lem.
"Martha. "
"Yes, dear."
"You think God's will was done."
"Why certainly dear. Why else would a thing like that happen."
(C ontinu ed on page 16)
i Withouta Soul
How of ten have I wondered, Can one live without a soul?
I ' ve lain awake and pondered If life was but a play,
And this another ro!e.
My heart bids me be content With what little I possess • But my brain will not relent, it says
Don't stop here. Go on, go on.
I listen to neither one-
I can't be happy or content When you have souls, and I have none.
I am me, and God made me this
He meant me for this role
He denied me all such earthly bliss When he rnade me live Without a soul. ,p:,.
1(
1(
1(
By LEAH LEVIN.
1(
Pat Allen was a clever wit; At least he thought he was.
That's why he never made a hit.
Pat Allen was a clever wit. JI
His jokes were good. Why no one bit He pondered as he scratched his fuzz.
Pat Allen was a clever wit;
At least he thought he was.
By LINCOLN BAXTER, II.
A DondeVa?
By JEAN SAPERSTEIN
IT is monotonous country , this flat , dry, uninteresting region of Mexico . The highway winds as a serpent through the rounded, cactus bearing hills , leading the way to the mountains and cities farther south. Along this road speed automobiles that quickly disappear in the distance as they are lost in the sagebrush. The trees of this region are short and dwarfed and give an impression of having been there since the first Indian tribe conquered and ruled this land. The blur of green on white sand gives an unchanging impression of desolation that grows with each succeeding day until eternity itself seems to have settled over the entire country
This atmosphere of desolation must have seemed even more intense to Pedro Carlos as he rode across the plain that dismal night sixty years ago. His small wagon was piled high with provisions for his farm from the city, all covered to protect them from the rain . .
Pedro was a typical Spaniard of Mexico His skin was sallow , tanned a bit from the sun , his teeth were a white contrast. His hair was dark and straight and on this night it hung wet and lank as it clung to his head.
This trip across the prairie was a usual one for him , but tonight he was thinkin g as he had never done before He tried to think of his farm and cattle , but somehow his thoughts seemed to turn to his life ten years ago. On this wet , gloomy night he couldn't help thinking of Tawi , for it was on just such a night that she had run away . He kept putting her out of his mind, but these thoughts persisted and he found that the whole story came back to him as clearly as if it had just happened.
Ten years ago, Pedro was a good friend of the Mestizos near his farm. To them he was their Spaniard friend and could always be depended upon to help them at any time. He recalled vividly how one day he had been summoned to decide a question among them. The dispute centered around a calf that two men claimed to be their own. They were pulling it until it became quite evident that they would pull its legs from the sockets unless
they were stopped. Pedro was summoned and had decided in favor of one of the men, leaving the other one angry and •sullen. This had started hard feeling within the tribe that had caused trouble to arise between the Mestizos and Pedro. They had threatened him and he was afraid.
That is why Pedro had asked Tawi to marry him. He had wished to form an alliance of blood between himself and the Mestizos . Tawi and her sister Ramira had been servants in his house since they were small and they knew Pedro well. Pedro had noticed how Tawi had grown and developed into a beautiful young girl. He had liked the twinkle in her eye and the happiness in her smile. Sh e was h is choice from the first and her ugly slovenly sister w as never considered.
Pedro interrupted his thoughts as he slapped the horses into a brisk trot. The rain was even more intense and the wind seemed colder. Here he was alone, and as he crossed the flat half desert he stood up to rest himself, for he had been sitting for a long time on the hard wagon seat. He began to stretch and occasionally he turned to cover some of the things in back of him to protect them from the driving rain. He buttoned the top button of his coat and sat down. Then he saw it. It was way out there in the distance, an indistinguishable something that was moving back and forth across the trail through the sagebrush. He thought it might be a dog or a cow, but as he came closer he saw that it was a human figure. He thought it might be one of his old enemies, a Mestizo , and put out his hand to feel his gun. It was there beside him and he clung to it as his only companion out there in the desolation.
The closer he came, the stranger it looked and soon he saw it to be the form of a woman. As nearly as he could tell she was a Mestizo woman of about thirty-five, but she looked much older. In her arms she carried a child. Pedro stopped the wagon and spoke to her in her own dialect. He told her to get up beside him, but she hesitated. He repeated this and again she hesitated. The third time she climbed up beside him. She was wet and cold (C o11ti1111 ed on page 15) [7]
Post-Prelude Beinga PersonalBiographicalPoem
• After Wordsworth
By HUGO LEAMING
The rural I spurn not, yet 't is not for me;
The pasture lands of green, the cornfields gold,
The sparkling rustic stream, the barn and house, Discreet, secluded, yet of friendly mien, The sounds of cattle lowing, cackling fowls, The merry clank of thresher or of plow,
The zestful ringing of the dinner bell,
The smell of barbecue, or better yet Of coffee wafted to the morning bed,
The tables laden down with Sunday feast
Of home-cured hams, and chickens roasted brown, Of greens, tomatoes, string-beans, black-eyed peas, Potatoes, sweet and Irish, fresh, hot rolls, Cheese, butter, and rich milk, warm from the cow, Pies-apple, pumpkin, berry, rhubarb, peach, And chocolate cakes and puddings with thick sauce;
The joy of living close to Mother Earth
From whom we came, to whom we shall return; I know all these, their charms, their simple joy, And yet I swear I'd never see them more, So I might keep that orphan child, ignored By poets of the new Romantic search,
The artificial, blatant, tinsel show,
The city! Streaming lights and blaring sounds, The pushing crowds that hurry, hurry where?
The mazing marts, the lo£ty towers of trade, Out-rivaling Babel or Jack's Beanstalk bridge,
The roaring traffic, buses, street-cars, cabs, Impossible complexity which weaves
A million souls together, each one bound By mutual aid and common enterprise; The theaters, cinema, legitimate, The art museums, science, history, Libraries filled with oft-read, much loved books, The great progressive schools, for varied needs, At night the same continuous stream of life, Seeking in leisure, pleasure and surcease
Frqm round of daily toil, through these, and ways
Less savory, yet more gaining in the end, Than what they lose, the struggling, proud polloi.
There are two philosophic truths revealed To me by history and reason's light; Which make me throw my lot with city's din, Instead of peaceful placid country-side, First, forced conjunction, quicker interchange Of ideas, aspirations, common goals, Interdependence, foster unity
From whence man's social saving shall arise, More readily than from the distances And independent jealous ownership Of acreage in the rural country-side. But loudest do I sing the urbs because There is Machinery, now Man's Master-Slave, But destined in the future to destroy The sister spectres, Poverty and War. To me, Man is not Bad, and Nature Good, But Man within is Good, and Nature mixed, She to be moulded by Mankind to fit His Ways, the Ways of Justice and of Peace
Expect not, therefore, from me pastoral words Of lessons gleaned from objects naturalRather my inspiration has still been The shared quest for a richer life for man.
As reason grew by exercise within My childish mind, so thoughts developed too Of human nature as it is today
And as it may be, man's cruel way with man, And visions of a better world to come. My part in building this new life remained In darkness to my mind, until there came, 5hort step by step, the answer clear and still More clear as yet more forces worked upon My will, and as Psychiatrists remark, "Conditioned" me to definite results.
Conceptof LiberalEducation
By JOEL HARNETT
EDUCATION, as a concept, has been set as the basis for the world of tomorrow. But education means to impart knowledge, and in this respect the Germans and Japanese are well along with us. Then education in a democracy must have a broader aspect. The determination of this aspect is the subject of this essay.
It becomes evident that embryonic man will be susceptible to indoctrination of the most sordid type and that, though endowed with faculties of reason, judgment and planning, he can be made to surrender these to the demands and requirements of such indoctrination.
The time value of life is negative. But in that momentary span of a given individual, it is the function of a liberal education to provide a basic value which would promote the interests of man to man, and man to his physical environment. While this may be considered indoctrination, the teaching of the scientific method solely without any basic value is also a form of indoctrination as it is seen that man is not forced or directed by nature to utilize the superior faculties with which he is endowed. The use of logic is dependent on biologic inheritance and in a sense it is previous to experience though it is recognized by its expression in culture. But man possesses many other means of expression, e.g., attitudes, traits, emotions, etc. which influence and condition his behavior.
This entire argument is predicated upon the belief that man arose from the evolutionary sequence as a dominating animal because of his superior faculties. He was not the goal of this process. His dominance may be traced in his ability to transmit culture.
Thus man as man has no purpose but the one he assigns to himself. Through the process of the centuries the purposes of man are crystallizing to those who are free to think, free from prejudice and preconceived notion. Government of a socially conscious people, free from the dominance of an organized unit of might, based on law, shall be the expedient by which the quest for truth, beauty and justice shall be pursued. This we believe.
· Why doesn't the Japanese, who has had scien-
[ 9]
tific training, believe in democracy? Here again one of the basic fallacies of the scientific education is revealed. Purely logical training precludes the emotional factor-the factor which actually inspires and drives thought. Pure scientific thought offers no stabilizer but must depend on emotional aspect for its sense of direction-an emotional aspect which is often engraved at youth.
Therefore this emotional aspect, or basic value, must, as Kimball Young states, be "a belief in a flexibility within a larger purpose that makes for cultural change." It must be then an assigned value, developed by the emotional intellectual process of men, and not by camouflage such as natural rights and God-given powers
The basic value that any liberal education must instil in the child and adult alike is his genuine debt and responsibility to society to contribute to the advance of man. Man has inherited all the ages. It is his duty to be conscious of this heritage, and to continually strive to augment his heritage. And it shall be his way of life to love, respect and honor his fellow man-to engage in all relations which foster, promote and develop understanding and harmony among men.
Responsibility, then, implies that from our past we discover ourselves and our fellow men. From our past we find a common future-a future assuring to everyone a definite purpose and function. With the genuine feeling of responsibility and common purpose comes a genuine feeling of brotherhood. Thus society can be integrated and those forces of social disassociativeness and those forces which cause the lack of social belongingness will be repelled by emotional and intellectual unity.
Discipline is the second great function of a liberal education . The Greek dialectic method of setting , say dark and light at opposite poles and arguing therein, is breaking down. Increasing knowledge reveals that often "logical opposites" are double aspects of the same phenomena. Logic, therefore, is dependent on the knowing of all the facts, and may by this biologic construction of limited sensation range seem incapable of acquiring all the facts. This we only observe.
( C o ntinu ed on pa ge 15)
DelFuturo
Smity-(an old man)
What day shall mark this world When disaster lives among us?
The world we once knew, vanquished.
To live only in a memory of the past. This tragedy will know us all And rock even Heaven and Hell. All shall be vanquished-. Only a memory shall remain.
Titus-( an old man)
A vision of the Future is a horror.
To see the future before it comes.
To know the ending before the start.
O~e who knows the future before others Should be left to his own despair.
But does anyone know of the future?
Does anyone except God?
And does he at all times?
Janus-( an old man)
There are those that live in the past, Living with those already dead.
And even more live in the days to come.
But only the contented live in the present. And how few those are in a world like this.
A world we thought we made. Of peace and love-
How much we still have to learn.
Jeffery-( a young man)
You speak of the future.
A future of what?
A world without toleration?
A world without love?
A world without God?
A world without kindness?
Is this to be our future? If so
Then I say we have earned it.
Smity-(an old man)
Our future is in the hands of so few.
Yet so very many-.
They figure all. They at the time.
They keep the peace
Or plot our destruction, They those, so few, Who without,
The world would be a better place.
Janus-(an old man)
But without them?
Then what of our future?
We can never mold ourselves
As we would like it.
So could we mold the future, Should we mold our future!
Or should we let it come?
And let it do its own doings?
Titus-(an old man)
Which shall we choose?
Let it come and mold us?
Let it come and destroy us?
If that be written, Let it come and rule us?
Let it come--
It may bring good things, Or horrible days of despair.
Jeffery-( a young man)
But that is the chance we must take.
We must take that chance.
Let it come and fall on us.
Let it come upon us.
We cannot stop it.
We cannot mold it.
We cannot make it.
And we ca9-not rule it.
Let it come with its doings.
Let it come.
Good or bad, let it come.
Who are we to say?
Yes, let it come and fall upon us.
Let it come with its unknown days.
It is already on its way we cannot stop it. It will come and we will make the best ot it
Smity-(an old man)
True, true, but wait and see.
When you are old as us.
And you will understand, perhaps. Yes, you are right,
But wait until you are old.
And there will be a difference.
You see, I know.
-By FLETCHER STIRES.
[ 10 J
Rosein the Evening
By FRAN WOLF
ONCE upon a time there was an old WiseWoman who was known throughout the land for her sayings and her prophecies. Also in that age long, long ago there lived a young girl who wished to know about the world and what to do with the years that lay before her. She was joy to the young and memory to the old but for her, gaiety was not enough.
"How can I learn about people?" she asked. "How can I know what I want for myself?"
Now the Wise-Woman had not her fame for naught. She had traveled the world around. She was the confidante of many a duchess and queen. Emperors payed her homage and Kings brought her flowers when they rode in their carriages up the hill to her home.
"Yes," said the Young Girl. "Wise-Woman is whom I shall see. Kings pay her homage and Princes bring her gifts. Yes, yes, this very morning I shall travel up the road to her home."
Young Girl walked many hours before she reached the top of the hill. The road was winding and steep. The day was warm and a hot wind blew dust in her face. But the path from the road to the house was soft and green. Branches shaded her from the noon-day sun.
"Wise-Woman, Wise-Woman," she called, "It is I, your neighbor, Young Girl from the village."
"Dear Child you must be tired. Rest in my garden while I bring you a drink of my wellwater.''
Young Girl sat in the cool shadows and saw far down, down below her village - the houses, streets, and people moving in them.
"Wise-Woman," she said as she returned, "Princes bring you gifts and Kings pay you homage. You are known throughout the land for your prophecies and wise sayings. Tell me what I should ask of the world?"
"Ask?" replied the Wise-Woman, "I know not what you mean!" She looked far away beyond the hills. Her eyes followed a mountain stream to the busy village below. It was a long while before she spoke.
[ 11]
"These words I would leave before you go, Life, Love and Tranquility."
"Life, Love and Tranquility," said the Young Girl in amazement. "I shall have the world when I have them?"
The old · woman turned her head and slowly smiled.
"Thank you Wise-Woman. Thank you old woman." In haste she bade her good day and ran down the path to the village.
On and on she ran, fast and free. This is fun, she thought, I run but I am not tired. It is good to feel motion, to have movement in each limb.
"Life," she said, "can this be what the old woman meant by life? I feel myself in motion and it is good. Yes this must be life."
But the road became rough. Stones, small and sharp, lay in her way.
"Let the pebbles get between my toes. I'll tramp on them. I'll run 'til I have had enough. Life," she thought, "this is life." And she darted down the road, down the hill.
She stopped and paused beside a field and a youth, tall and brown, came out to meet her. He tossed his scythe by his row and took her hand in his. Together they sang and danced their way along the road to the village.
"Love," thought the Young Girl. "The old woman bade me have love. This must be Love, this is Love." And she looked into the eyes of the Boy.
Presently Young Girl grew tired.
"Let us rest before we go farther," she said, and she sat with her back against a tree. She watched the shadows of the afternoon grow longer, longer, longer. Tranquility, thought she, this must be Tranquility. I have them all now, Life, Love, and Tranquility. The Boy plucked some roses and tossed them at her feet. "Yes," she repeated after a long while, "I have them all now, Life, Love, Tranquility."
But why was it so hard to rise? Why did she wish to stay longer? "I have forgotten movement," she cried, "and yes, I have forgotten Life."
( Continued on page 16)
DearAlice-Sit-by-the-Fire
[From the Southwest Pacific]
the third of my letters from the ship
Dearest Mate,
I'm not responsible for the lapse in letter writing. I haven't received a word from the outside world in a longer time than you would probably believe and thus haven't written or mailed any letters.
·
We've known each other a long time, but as Christmas returns again and we' re in such different parts of the world, doing such vastly different jobs, and maybe heading in different directions for the rest of our lives, our crowd occupies my thoughts as it's never done before. I would like to spend my inspiration on some poetry but I have only time for a short letter. Tomorrow there is opportunity to send some mail, and I must do my best to let all my friends know my thoughts and my condition. Wartime watch-standing leaves precious few moments to write letters . To make you laugh perhaps, I enclose a line or two written while on watch immediately after guess-what.
I Don't Get It-
When men elect a politico
And pay him cash to spend their dough
And let him legislate at will
To plague their lives with tax and bill
And build his kin a feathered nest
On funds withdrawn from the public chest, That's human nature.
When men solve their problems by a war
And gather armies from afar
Who smash and slaughter with mad ambition
To send their brothers to Hell's perdition
And full indeed with their own creation
Will call the outcome civilization, That's human nature.
When men all day will fight their foes
Decided upon by their politicos
Swapping for blood the joys of their past
Wrecking their health with life 'fore the mast
And faced with a life so God-damned futile
Will wake themselves with a God-damned bugle, I don't get it.
It isn't much but it's all I can contribute to a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year for you, besides my love and best wishes. As to how I am, I am fat, working a little, fighting a little and anxious to see my friends again m peace. As to where I am, I'm nowhere.
MATE.
[From the European Theater of Operations]
Dear Ann<::
August 15, 1943.
Recently I was able to get to London on a short holiday and to do a pretty complete job of sightseeing. It was much like the days of the World's Fair insofar as my feet went, but it was well worth the effort and by the time I get back I should be well equipped to bore anyone to death with my "world travels."
My tour started with the Royal residence which is a cold and formal looking place yet very much in keeping with the dignity of the symbol it represents. It is surrounded by high walls and watched over by the famed Palace Guard who maintain a rigid position of Parade Rest, hardly appearing to be anything but wooden figures but fast to become alive at the approach of an officer, theirs or our own. In front of the palace is the Victoria Monument upon which sits the figure of Queen Victoria, looking very much like Helen Hayes or perhaps it's vice versa, facing towards the buildings of Parliament and Westminster. Our appointment to be shown through the Houses of Parliament fell through because of the large number in the group. Instead we went to Westminster Abbey where our guide was an elderly monk with a delightful sense of humor. You could spend days inside the Abbey. The stained glass windows depict many of the Kings of England and persons of other fame and busts and tablets by the countless number pay homage to many more. We were unable to enter the sanctuary wherein are entombed the royalty but our guide told us that there, side by side, reposed the sister Queens, Mary and Elizabeth who "fought like cats when alive but now sleep together as peaceful as two kittens." It's impossible to say exactly how many famous persons I trod upon but among those whose graves I did (Co11ti1111 ed on page 16)
[ 12 ]
"From Whence Cometh My Help"
(Cont inued from page 3)
Conversations often do the same thing, so I thought I' cl listen to what was being said around me for a while. Besides, I had nothing to read.
". some people have it and some don't. I've tried . everything, and as a constant pick-up, I've found Tums to be very satisfactory." (Mr. Emeritus T. Board, in his oh-so knitted voice, was enlightening us on his indigestion again. Yesterday it had been heartburn. Funny thing-I always thought he' cl been brought up on pink, sticky medicine, and here I found it was Tums. He must listen to radio commercials .)
"Probably habit forming though, and not good for you." Mr. Woolwine looked very deductive and belligerent, as if daring any one of us to contest his remarkable sentence. He also kept drumming his fingers on his vest. They fascinated me! Or maybe my fascination lay in that big spot of grease on his tummy. Wonder how that got there -our food was dried and tinned.
"You know, you may be right - I' cl never thought of it that way," said Mr. Inge, immediately crossing from his mind the idea of purchasing a package of the little remedies as soon as he boarded the rescue ship. Mr. Inge didn't look as if he'd ever die from indigestion anyway. He'd probably be knocked down by a taxi.
"You people in America eat too much, anyway. And, I might add, waste more than you eat. I lived in California before I moved to Japan, and my only hard lesson" ( aside from his bed, I thought to myself) "was my diet. It was a good lesson in conservation and frugality, and far removed from the excessive dimensions of the American table." Mr. Sujin's ancestors probably never had an ulcer in their lives, but I couldn't see myself turning down a steak. Or anything perishable, for that matter, as long as it was on a good steady table. This drifting could be very monotonous. It was. A little world afloat, with no direction, magnitude or speed. Only rhythm-and this was aided by a soft, humming rendition of that spiritual so common to Joe's race, "Swing Low " Joe's mellow voice was also common to his race. Aside from that it was common to our respective frames of mind. We would make a dull moving picture. There was no hysteria, no outward excitement, and little evidence of anxiety. I doubted if even Alfred Hitchcock could have satisfactorily whooped us up
for film goers. Of course, Horatio Alger probably coul d have dug up something from our situ ation, but I for one wou l dn't have wanted to be another "Jed, the Poorhouse Boy." Oh, we were a diverse bunch of strandees, but apparently unimpressed with each other, and maybe just a trifle bored, despite our precarious surroundings. A deck of cards would have been nice. Rev. Blanchard could have looked the other way, if he liked We wouldn't mind, even if we couldn't play "Eights" without him. Oh well, everyone wouldn't have wanted that game anyway. Maybe a little singing would pep up the spirits. No, that wouldn't work either. Mr. Brister was sort of "Porgy and Bess"; Mr. Woolwine was definitely "Clementine"; Rev. Blanchard, a literal "Firm Foundation"; and Mr. Inge knew a bit of them all-but, he was a monotone. Since all this and conversation too failed, the only thing left was reading. No printed material aboard. I wished · aloud for my now-watery copy of "Between Tears and Laughter."
"You are an admirer of Lin Yutang ?" Dr. Ingraham queried. I turned to answer him, and was struck anew by his resemblance to a ship's masthead. Strong. Yet, his eyes bel1ed my imagery. They were kind and knowing, with a bit of Churchill in their blue.
"To be quite trite, a master of ink, pen, and words,'' I replied.
"A brilliant man," said Mr. Sujin. "He writes with a great power of understanding and intelligence. Some of his works remind me strongly of the wisdom of Confucius. Insight, I think you would call it." My mind snapped at this. Curious that he could have so quickly spanned the ages between ancient and present. Thinking back though , it clicked. Most Japanese were covered with a veneer of modernism, behind which lay the traditions of the centuries. Our "Southern Ancestry and Aristocracy" couldn't touch it.
"Who on earth is Confucius?" asked Mr. Woolwine, now noticing for himself that spot on his vest, and in his efforts to remove it paying little attention to any answer given him.
"I seem to recall some play on Broadway which popularized a song about the gentleman. A disgraceful popularization, many say," mused Mr. Brister as he sat trying to construct some fishing equipment. (Just where he would have deposited any of his "hauls" I don't know. This drifting apparition was already crowded without the burden [ 13 J
of some dead fish. Apologies to Mr. Emeritus T. Board.)
"As a matter of fact, I remember some of those ditties myself," said Mr. Inge.
"His followers have often hampered our great missionary work in the East, but I think they'll gradually see the light." This came from Rev. Blanchard, was seconded by Mr. Board, and gave Mr. Inge ample time to say:
"But, of course."
Mr. Sujin carried on: "Well, it's all in the way you look at the situation. No one will deny the sagacity of this man, though in many parts it is condemned. He found his way of life just as many other great men. For instance, Buddha, Mohammed, Nanak, Lao-tze, Mahavira, Zoroaster, Moses, and your Jesus Christ. This quest is every man's and not all see it alike."
Mr. Woolwine had by this time succeeded in removing much of the grease (maybe not to Mr. Sujin's satisfaction because Mr. Sujin was immaculately clean) and in agonizing antagonism said:
"Do you realize what you've said Mr. Sujin? You have classed all these other people with Jesus Christ! You are being blasphemous-without faith-and you will burn in hell! Do you read the Bible?" Mr. Woolwine wore his best negative expression as he awaited Mr. Sujin's reply:
"Yes. It is a beautiful and wise book, but I must also find time for other reading."
"Do you maintain all of these religious founders have something of God in them?" asked Rev. Blanchard with great politeness.
"Yes, do you?" echoed Mr. Inge, who found his ideas wavering in about the same tempo as the raft.
Mr. Sujin was not in the least perturbed, and was just getting ready to reply, when Dr. Ingraham interrupted him. This irritated me. I wanted to say something myself, but my irritation yielded to constructive attention as Dr. Ingraham spoke:
"I think there is something of God in each man. I don't hold forth on the physical likeness, but speak in a broader sense. God is good ' , and in each individual some of the same quality is found . . Some have been drawn forward more than others, but indirectly God is working toward an ultimate cause of raising all men upward-drawing them out with a magnetic good for all."
"Maybe you' re right," said Mr. Inge, "I never looked at it that way before." Mr. Woolwine looked as if someone had casually expectorated on
[ 14}
his Sunday School class, and he opened his mouth to speak, but nothing happened. Rev. Blanchard, perhaps handicapped a bit by the bringing up of his age, nodded his head in agreement, or at least deep thought. He might have been praying for the soul of Dr. Ingraham, too. Joe didn't quite understand. He couldn't read the scriptures himself, but he'd heard a lot of powerful preaching from Parson Staples, and it never sounded like this. Mr. Brister looked quizzically at the bouquet of roses tossed in his lap. Somehow, he'd always thought Man was inherently bad. He still thought so. Mr. Emeritus T. Board felt mighty proud of the good in his own soul, and plainly showed it. (He also showed a faint twinge of nausea. I said before this drifting and rocking was monotonous. I neglected to say it was at the same time dizzying. Maybe if Mr. E.T. B. had a Tum ... ) . Mr. Sujin's expression remained immobile, but he was the next to speak:
"Dr. Ingraham, does this good in each man perpetuate itself in your government? Does your teacher Jesus Christ give advice for governing? Are your leaders strictly politically chosen? Do they have the allegiance of the entire country without any minority acceptance element? Is it a law of love, or the law of The Declaration of Independence?"
"The Declaration of Independence was a step in giving us the freedom and ability to love," I ventured. Realizing the state aspect of his Shinto cult, I went on: "No, Mr. Sujin, this law of love does not enact from us unity and devoutness to our government. That is, directly it does not. Neither does this idea prohibit our selection of state. Through evolution of thought and opinion we direct that. And you yourself have probably heard the saying 'He who never changes his opinions, never corrects his mistakes.' We may change some more, but our hearts and minds are free to do it."
"While we're near the subject, do you think F. D. R. will run for a fourth term?" asked Mr. Brister. (He never did finish his fishing rig-I think he needed a pin for a hook).
"He'll never get my vote," said Mr. Woolwine. "He's gortoo many rash ideas, and he'd lead this country to rack and ruin."
"There's a big possibility, there," our precocious Mr. Inge advocated.
(Continued on page 16)
Concept of Liberal Education
(Continued from page 9)
Thus though logic cannot be the sole determining guide in life, it can modify and influence our lives so that the animal characteristics within us are rejected and the superiority within is displayed. It can guide parents in the development of personality traits for their children. It can guide adults in the selection of their various social roles. It, predicated upon the more emotional concepts of responsibility to society and brotherhood of man, can provide the basis for the accumulation of knowledge and the regulation of life.
Through the exercise of logic we shall train our minds and our hearts. For we realize that man has both an emotional and logical capacity. They must be coordinated in proper degrees to fit individual needs.
Thus through the course of century process man has assigned to himself the task of pursuing truth, beauty and justice, and within a more limited sphere, that societal coordination and relative truth contingent upon a given situation in a dynamic society.
[But man is often misled. In the case of economics the desire to earn money ( using money to symbolize the rewards of our present day industrialism and huge enterprise )-man's acquisition complex, has overshadowed other considerations and has been, in our power-driven society, powerful enough to distort and even offset proper education. The whole of man's wealth-getting and wealth-using activities is designed now ( as noted in the development of such fields as electronics, ' etc.) to supply man with his basic needs, with a decent standard of living, so that the acquisition of these needs will not conflict with man's purpose. Economics should promote efficiency. It should be the expedient permitting man's endowments to be focused on those activities and functions promoting man's purpose. J
Liberal education in a democracy, or in any free society, :requires more than anarchy of thought. It requires responsibility, the emotionalintellectual concept of drawing from the past the duty of tomorrow. It requires the responsibility to love and honor fellow men and in this brotherhood find unity and belongedness with all that has gone before and all that shall come after.
Mental discipline shall be the great restrainer of man as an animal. Through this discipline the
(15]
whole sweep of individual drives both acquired and instinctive can be unleashed within the elastic confines of a stimulating, primary emotionalintellectual foundation. In effect it will be a unity of science and humanity allowing the dominant animal to alter and determine his destiny free from the dogma and subtle deception of preconceived notion, and unfettered by the fear of an allperceiving power.
Man is the focus of nothing except his own culture. (For man contrasted to the universe is farcical.) But the endowments of man have brought glory to man and to no other we can realize. Let all men take heart in the glory that is man. Through a liberal education can his energies be properly directed and channeled to produce the best for his fellow-seekers.
A Donde Va?
(Continued from page 7) and her baby was _crying. Pedro spoke to her, "a d6nde va? where are you going? You shouldn't be walking out here on a night like this."
She didn't answer, but sat looking at him. He again attempted conversation.
"Your baby looks sick."
She answered in perfect Spanish, "Esta bueno, he is well." This surprised him. She did not look like one who would speak Spanish in such a manner. Her clothes were worn and dirty. She was ugly ancl fat and looked much older than she was. Her skin was dried and wrinkled and her eyes were sharp and hard.
She obviously did not care to talk. They rode along together in a silence that was much worse than before when there had only been Pedro. She would occasionally move closer to him to keep dry, but she never spoke. They moved on in the driving rain, through the short grass and over the wet mud and sand. ·
Pedro could not figure her out. Maybe she had been south or had just come from the city. He asked, "Are you going to Makarra ?"
"No," she said, 'Tm going to Chihuahaua."
This amazed him. Why would she make such a trip at this time of year? Anticipating his question, she said, ''I've been waiting for you, Pedro." She watched him and saw his startled -look. He thought, however, that many of these Mestizos called him Pedro. Why shouldn't she? Somehow
it seemed familiar. Somehow it seemed natural for her to call him Pedro. He asked, "How did you know that I was coming, and today?"
"Pedro always takes two weeks to come from the big city," she said. He dropped the reins and then jerked them up again, making them slap the horses ' back so that they began to trot fiercely. She was Ramira !
The baby began to cry and the wagon rumbled on unchecked This was the Mestizo girl who had run away from him ten years ago. This ugly, slovenly creature was Ramira , just as she used to be but a little older. As she sat there beside him, he thought of his marriage to her and how they drove home together. He had had to marry her before Tawi for she was the eldest of the two sisters. He and T awi had planned to murder her. But everything went wrong. Tawi was afraid. Afraid to kill in order to live. She ran away and here he was-left with Ramira. He hated Ramira, hated her because she was the cause of his loss and when she ran away, back to her people, he had been glad.
Now here she was beside him. Her baby was crying and she was wet and covered with mud Pointing to her baby he said, "Whose is the child? " She shrugged her shoulders . "Where is the father?" Again no answer. "What do you want from me?"
'Tm coming home with you. I'm your wife and I shall live in your house. "
All astonishment left him. He sat the r e dully, sullenly. Mad, mad, she was to think of such a thing-Laughing was she? well he'd show her.
He stood upright in the wagon. " Get out!" he shouted She never moved. "Out of the wagon! " She sat, holding her child close to her warm body, protecting it from the rain. "The child ," she began, "it will die." He stood there. "Out!" She started to climb down, her baby in both arms. She stepped into the mud and stood looking at him. He turned and whipped the horses into a trot. The wagon slipped away through the wind and rain leaving behind it loneliness, melancholy, and all eternity.
f f f
Dear Alice-Sit-by-the-Fire
(Cont inued f r om page 12) find myself standing on were Dickens, Sir Isaac Ne w ton, Kipling, and numerous others whose
eternal rest must have been somewhat disturbed by the pounding of my number thirteens. We stood in front of the remains of Chaucer and I couldn't help recalling how much I once hated him when I had to spend perfectly good afternoons when the football was calling, just to study his Canterbury Tales. Then over London Bridge to the Tower of London where the famous political prisoners of the time were incarcerated and done away. It has a bloody history and all the romance of Robin Hood, but I will have to tell you about it in another letter.
I hope this finds you in the best of health and that all the folks are likewise. Please remember e1e to everyone and all the best to you.
f f
The Intruder
(Co 11ti1111e d fro 111page 5)
"Then , Martha, I'm a greater sinner than Mary. "
" Hush , dear , you mustn't say things like that."
" I am , I am. This morning, before the snow stopped falling, I got up and killed that damn intruder "
f f f
Rose 1n the Evening
{Contin u ed from page 11)
Then she snatched a rose from the ground and tore it apart in anger. "If this be tranquility I'll have none of it. I wish for a free life , a full life." The Boy lifted her to her feet and they went toward the village hand in hand.
As they neared the town at evening, Young Girl turned and called to the still rose colored hills , "Old woman, old woman, I do not like Tran - ' quility, I will not have Tranquility. You may take Tranquility, but I'll have Love and Life."
f f f
"From Whence Cometh My Help "
(Conti n ued fro m page 14)
Big, black Joe displayed healthy, white teeth at the mention of Roosevelt's name. Pretty plain about him-
As for myself, as I looked out over the wate r again, I half-heartedly expected to see Eleano r come chugging up in a row boat. I almost wished she would. Even if she didn't have a deck of cards , she'd probably know a good joke. No Eleanor met my eye, however. Only the dark green sea. Endless Drifting.
[ 16]
Weof'47
The gossamer of life's So delicate, That I have thought to pull it till it breaks-
But fairy stuff is strong, And dreams outlast the days Of sunshine-they always come When nights are cool and dark.
Tonight 'twas Shelley came. In his dark eyes I saw The nightingale's wild grief, Yet even so the skylark's song Was warm and golden when he spoke .
And once Will Shakespeare came. Enthroned upon his shoulder Puck Was sitting. His green eyes Danced, and all night long he played with me--
But when the dawn was near, He leaped upon the crescent moon And sailed away.
John Keats came too, one night , That day I'd found a violet
DREAMS
In the grass, And knew that spring was here. Keats came-for spring will always bring him backWith flowers in his hands and in his eyes eternal youth.
The birds sang all night for joy That Keats was here again.
One cold, wet night 'twas Poe who came. And led me where the way was rough and dark and steep.
That night the evil elves were out; They danced across our path And laughed at all our stumbling.
But Poe led on-his black hair wild And grief incarnate in his eyes.
I know not what of evil I expected,
But when we stopped, I saw a star-
The star where Israf el is singing, That beckoning white symbol
Of all the dreams that men have dreamedAnd Poe was gone.
-VERDA SLETTEN
• IGGETT
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