His years of study are never finished . .for the practice of medicine is one of constant change ... and every change is for the better for you!
SEVEK long years he studied before those respected initials "l\1.D." were affixed to his name. And that was only the beginning!
For every day brings disco\'eryin the field of medicine. :\'cw methods of treatment, of protecting :111dprolonging life. All these the doctor must know to fulfill his obligation to you to mankind. That's being a doctor!
Mt1onw1t-k
suro~:
• "\V h at c iga r ette do you s m oke, Doctor?"
That was the g ist of t h e questio n put to 113,597 docto r s from coast to coast i n a recent survey by t h ree i nclepe n dent research groups.
More doctors named Came l s tha n any other c igaret t e.
If you' r e a Camel smoker, this definite prefe re n ce for Ca m el s a m ong p h ysicians wi ll not su rp r ise yo u . If not, t h e n by a ll means try Came ls . Try t h em for taste for your t h roat. That's t h e "T - Zo n e" test ( see right).
Your "T-Zone " Will Tell You ..•
The"T-Zone"-T for taste andTfo r throat -is your own provi ng grou n d for any cigarette. For on ly your taste a n d your throat can decide which cigarette tastes best to yo1t a nd how i t affects you r th roat.
CONTENTS
MR. HEERSTEEG'S BICYCLE By Henry I. Treagle
Verda Sletten
Shelley Harrell
M. B. Haskell
By Fletche r Stiers } fr.
.Mr. Heerstee9' s Bicycle
THE Germans had a lot of stuff in Denlo. Their Infantry did what they could to hold us outside until they had it pretty well cleaned out. It was eleven o'clock when the first of our tanks really got into town and another three hours before all the stragglers had been flushed out of their holes. We moved our tanks down into what had been a park and took it easy while the C. 0. went to a meeting. When he came back, he was looking kind of light and easy, which made us feel good. Things hadn't been going too well lately. We'd had a lot of men hit in the past month, and we'd lost several tanks. The old man just seemed to get greyer and quieter, and that didn't help us any. As soon as he started to talk, we knew why he looked better. By the time he'd finished, we looked better, too. They were going to give us a little rest-nothing much, just a few days here in this burg to sort of get ourselves together; but even that sounded fine. They'd promised him twenty men and four new tanks, too, and that would help. Even the best outfit needs men and guns; and when the losses are not replaced, the morale starts down. It's too easy to remember who's gone when the holes in the company are not filled up. Well, it seemed the brass had finally realized this and were going to give us a breathing spell. And that wasn't all. We wer<'!going to be billeted right in the houses. Seems the mayor and some of the big shots had already been to headquarters and invited us to make free with the city, or what was left of it. It didn't sound half bad. The place was shot up plenty; but we had already peeked into some of the houses, and there were still lots of beds and even some sheets that the Jerries hadn't had time to cart away.
The chow truck had come up by this time; and while we were getting our first hot meal in a week, the old man took the first sergeant and an interpreter and got us bedded down in houses right around the park. After we ate, we checked the tank and got our staff together. In a little while they came by with a list and said we were to stay in number fourteen. We left Mike with the tank, and Harris and I hauled our gear over to see what kind of place we had drawn. Number fourteen was in the middle of the block; small but neat. The owner
had turned his whole family out in our honor; and they were sort of standing at attention as we came up the walk, the man, his wife, and two little boys. Their name was Heersteeg, and we were lucky that he spoke pretty good English.
The house was so clean it shone. We had expected that maybe these people wouldn't be too happy to have soldiers living with them. We'd had these invitations from the city fathers before in France, and sometimes you went sour when you found that the people were glad that the Germans were gone, and they wished you were too. Here it was different though. These Dutch seemed really happy to have us. Families tried to outdo each other in making their Americans comfortable. The Heersteegs, all four of them, had moved into what had been the dining room, leaving us two bedrooms upstairs and the living room downstairs. When we saw how crowded they were, we tried to get them to move back into at least one of the rooms. We explained that two rooms was plenty for us, but there was no changing their minds They insisted they were comfortable in one room , and they didn't need any more space. There was a big double bed in each of the rooms upstair s and a smaller bed downstairs. We decided we' d use the upstairs beds and keep the downstairs room clear in case we could coax them back into it later . We had a lot to do the first two days, wha t with cleaning up the tanks and reloading them The first couple of nights we just hit the sack afte r supper and caught up on some of the sleep we 'd been missing. On the afternoon of the third da y the old man sent word around for everybody t o knock off after dinner and spend the afternoo n getting his personal stuff in shape. This was O.K. with us because we hadn't even had time to writ e a letter. After chow we were sitting around th e living room with Mr. and Mrs. Heersteeg, chewing the fat. We were drinking coffee that we' d made from . the dry rations we carried in the tank. They told us it was the first real coffee they' d tasted since 1940. She couldn't speak much English, so every few minutes he'd break off and explain what we'd been talking about. We told hi m something about the States and showed him some ol d magazines we had in the tank. He told u s [ 2 J
about some of the things the Germans had done; how, when they knew the Americans were coming, they had stripped the town of everything they could carry. "But I them have deceived," he said in his funny formal English. "Come into the cellar. I will show you."
We wondered what it was he was so proud of, but we followed him out into the back yard and down into the cellar. He went to a far corner where there was a rack full of empty jars and bottles. He told us that before the war his wife had canned a lot of things every year, and this was where they had stored them. We helped him drag the shelves out into the center of the room. Behind where they had been was just another plastered panel that looked like the rest of the walls. We watched him while h e took a little hatchet and began to chip the plaster from the edges of the panel where it joined the brick columns on each side. Then, with the edge of the hatchet he began prying from the top where it joined the rafters of the ceiling. Pretty soon the whole business came loose. He gave a tug and pulled the panel free. It w as just a sheet of board, covered with a thin layer of plaster. Behind it was an opening about three feet deep, dug out of the earth and lined with wood. Then we saw what it was that had made his face shine so upstairs. Standing in this little space was a bicycle, carefully wrapped in cloth. We pulled it out and carried it upstairs. The re were yards and y?rds of rags on all the metal par ts. He had greased it pretty well, so it was in good shape considering that it had been, so he told us, "buried" on the fifteenth of May, 1940. Tha t meant it had been in that hole almost five years. The seat was covered with mildew and the solid tires were a little soft, but all in all it was sull a good bicycle. He patted it like it was a kid.
We spent most of the afternoon helping him clean it up. It really looked like something when we finished. "And now," he told us, "it must stand in front of the house so the neighbors may see it." Se we wheeled it around to the front and left it there on its stand, shining in the late afternoon sun.
We all went back into the house, he to help his wife in the kitchen, and we to write letters in the living room until it was time to eat. Things were quiet for about half an hour; and then the front door banged, and Balte, the oldest boy, rushed in crying and jabbering in Dutch. His father heard him and came into the living room from the kitchen. He stood there by the boy, holding his arm and sort of leaning over him. We could see that the kid was so excited he was having trouble trying to tell what was the matter. We were standing around trying to figure it out. The kid didn't seem hurt any. "What's wrong, Mr. Heersteeg, what's the matter with Balte ?" asked Mike.
Mr. Heersteeg didn't answer right away. Balte had stopped crying and just stood there, looking down at the floor. The father reached over to the table and picked up one of the empty coffee cups that we had drunk from earlier in the afternoon. He played with the spoon for a moment; then he said slowly, "It is the bicycle. An American soldier came in and took it. When Balte tried to hold it, he pushed him down." He walked to the door. We looked at each other. Nobody knew what to say. Then he turned around and looked at us very straight and smiled. He was holding the cup carefully with both hands. "It is not important," he said, "Balte understands that the soldier needed it very much and was in a great hurry. Also, it was a very old bicycle."
-HENRY I. TREAGLE.
ThoughtOn Light
Through the window it falls, and onto the floor; there to die and have its ghost live out the slowly passing day.
-ANON.
[ 3 J
The Exile
I have known youAll you people -
In many lands I have known youUnder many flags.
In exile I have followed shadows , And the shadow s have taken shape , And the shapes have been yours.
You - you proud EgyptianUnder your lash I built a pyramidA pyramid that stands today To keep the world from forgetting That on the Nile Centuries ago There li v ed a mighty race
And you- dark luxurious man of BabyloniaIn your land long ago Powerful and sureSecure upon his throne Your mightiest king Bade my people turn Their faces from the WestAnd so-today-the world may read The name of Nebuchadnezzar
On the pages of The Book
My people wrote .
Do you rememberWeak remnant of a mighty raceHow Pilate washed his hands And let a Man die on a Cross ? A cross that casts its shadow yet
Across the years and lands The world has known Since your vast empire fell.
You - arrogant German - when your land let me in What crime did I commit?
Was it Mendelssohn ' s music? Was it Einstein ' s science?
Were these the crimes for which the blood of my people darkened your land ? Then is it justice that the mighty BearAn angry Marx , reincarnatedCrouches above you.
You - quiet and cautious EnglishmanPriding yourself on your justiceWas it justice that your greatest playwright , Blackened a people ' s name , Sending it down the centurie s A synonym for greed?
And you- AmericanWhat of you?
Your motley race Sings of its democracyAll colors , creeds, and faithsShall r believe you?
Shall I stop my long and tortuous pilgrimage? Is your wide land, wide enough To house an exile Till he becomes A part of you?
- VERDA SLETTEN
4}
AndNowFirebird
READY room has a tense atmosphere that I do not care to remember. I hated the very sight of the place. Flying between bursts of flak is one thing, but sitting down thinking about it beforehand is just too much. To relax with my eyes shut was only to relive every bad flight. W hen I joined one of the community sings, I became irritated at the music which was never played at the right tempo. In hope of being able to break th is period of mental strain I got a very thick illustra ted book of well written fairy stories
I doubt that the book had been written for children to read or to have read to them; I had to use a dictionary from time to time. But those two books did the trick, and time in the ready room became leisure time. Soon my interest was turned toward tra cing the origin of, and the reason for, some of the tales.
O ne evening I was cqntrasting the Russian legend of the Firebird with the way it now appea rs in ballet.
" What a stupid thing to be reading!" exclaimed a voice in back of me. A hand belonging to the owner of the voice reached before me and pointed to the title at the top of the page: "The Firebird." "W hen a person your age starts reading fairy tales, he is in a bad way."
" Do not be so quick in your judgment. You see, \\ ha t I started reading is not so fantastic as you seem to think."
" Pray, tell me more," said the intruder who tu rn ed out to be our bombardier.
I proposed that we look at the matter sanely, and he was willing to hear what I had to say. "McNmara, when this story of the Firebird was made up, people believed in magic. They also be1ieved that Good, sooner or later, won over Evil."
" Maybe so, but who reads that magic stuff today?"
"You. Don't tell me that you have forgotten reading some Shakespeare in school!"
His face brightened. "Yes, but what he wrote is out of date. You just tell me something written toda y that is full of magic!" Arching one eyebrow as best he could under the red goggles, he sat down opposite me and grinned slyly.
"Look at the cowboy pictures of today, " I said in an authoritative voice. "Good, the honest ranchhand, wins over Evil, the crooked banker. In "
"The magic, pal. What about the magic?"
"The hero's guns are nothing short of miraculous."
" But there is so very much else to read. Why spend your time reading such trash? I think that you would find more in The Idiot than in that." His smile became wicked. "What happened? Did you get involved with one of the women in town?"
For a while I sat there thinking of the gloomy characters in The Idiot and of my companion's last remark. There was no point in saying anything. He was as prejudiced as a Roman Communicant defending his faith-or assailing another's.
"Fifth Pathfinders, man your planes," belched the speaker over our heads.
The Hun had found that when we made a noise, Hell was to follow. He kept his ears focused along our strip of the coast. Being a bit more intelligent than he gave us credit, we hardly ever went out directly from the field, but rather from some other point North or South of our position. Swooping across the water at a dangerously low level, we usually managed to be well over France before we were picked up by radar.
Two days before, our sturdy Mosquitoes had been replaced by Sterlings. There was a flamboyant fear in the pits of our stomachs as we ran toward our planes.
"Time marches backwards," reiterated the skipper, pointing to the mass of metal we were to fly.
"I don't mind the walk back; it is that swim across the channel that bothers me!" quoth McNmara as we piled in.
Suspicion had arisen that the Sterling was not built for Pathfinder work. We confirmed that suspicion. Our Sterling refused to do more than stroll. It ate up petrol as fast as our old "champagne glass," 1 yet it absolutely would not hurry. Over the water there was a dreadful feeling that every radar set they had was following our flying snail.
'Champagne Glass, i.e. , Mosquitoe.
[ 5}
The ambition of every German battery must have been to knock us down that night. We were no more than a quarter of an hour over France when the Hun sychronized his guns with his radar. The pyrotechnics were enjoyable but accurate. Our port wing lit up like a corner of Times Square.
"Skipper, drop to 5,000 on a 'mag' heading of 283 if you want to get back to the channel." I was yelling so loud that you did not have to use inter~ , phone.
"If abortion 2 is your nortion, I can get it for you wholesale," said the skipper as we turned back.
2 To abort; to turn back before finishing a trip.
We got a fish-eye view of the channel. Whe n the raft was ready to pull away from the sinkin g fuselage, McNmara shrieked something and wen t back. Had we left one of the crew? McNmar a spilled his 'chute and used it to fight the flam es that lashed at him. An eternity passed with each tick of my watch. Not one of us expected to see him come out of that inferno alive, but we di d. He ran the length of the wing to where we awaite d him in the raft. Under his arm was a small bund le to which he was clinging desperately.
"My comic books," he explained. "My new comic books. I just couldn't let them go down ."
-SHELLEY HARRELL.
HUMANand OTHERWISE
We, who admire the idealist, functioning in the government as well as enlivening the drawingroom conversation, make much moan over the exodus of Mr. Wallace from the Cabinet. He was the last of the positives whose voice sounded strongly enough to bristle the casts of the conglomerate negatives, the shadow-casters with "a firm hand" backed up by a veritable snarl.
It is now we need a man who would rather have confidence than doubt, one who is capable of a long view of a scene, and is not forever leaping from rock to rock in a fog, challenging each form he encounters. For reasons practical we prefer and admire the man who dares smile and walk steadily ahead to the myriad anxious and insecure who are ever looking furtively behind them, expecting
(6)
to be stabbed in the back. It is a matter of p ositivism vs. negativism.
Almost anyone will agree in theory that the way to fight adolescent stubbornness is not with ad ult stubbornness, that respect and consideration will further a cause immeasurably, that the way of p ersuasion is psychological and not physical.
And yet in practice they lay the barbed wire and throw up the trenches, rendering useless any offers of cooperation to a confrere who cannot see our faces for the bristling guns of animosity, associates armed with all the good will of the Me dieval Inquisitionists.
Oh, generation of little faith, two added minu ses can never create a plus!
-M. B. HASKELL.
The Old Man That Made His Own Wine
THE old man laughed and took the skin of wine down from the wall rack. " I made this myself." He poured two bowls full of it and handed one to the lad "It is good ."
T he youth drank it down. His belly was empty , and the wine was warm and sweet. Two glasses of it were enough , and it was only a moment of t ime before he saw things, not as they are, but instea d as so many so of ten see them; and then he laug hed with Old Lucian.
"A nother cup?"
" A nother cup! "
"T he wine is good? You like it? I made it myself last summer from the grapes that grow wild on the upper ridge "
" Sweet as I like it. I am tired. Sleepy, I think . I am tired because I have walked a long ways because I a m a traveler because I wished to travel becau se I wish to see the world because I have not seen i t because I had a home because I had a mother an d a father because they w ere married because I w as g oing to be born because they didn't have any be tt er sense! Old Lucian I am tired Sleepy."
" Ye s, l a d. Have an o ther bowl of wine . It will fill your b elly , a nd then you w ill sleep ."
"It is wa rm wine I like w a rm wine It is good wine "
" I ma de it in the summer !"
" A t h ome they would not let me drink wine because it wa s a home where children did not drink wine, and I was a child at home; but now I am no t a t h ome and am not a child, and I will drink all th is lovely sweet warm wine And now I am no t a child in that home where they would not let me drink sweet wine; because I am older , and I lik e sweet warm wine, and I will drink sweet warm wine when I want sweet warm wine , and n ow I want sweet warm wine. Old Lucian I am tir ed . Sleepy."
" Another bowl of wine, lad?"
" Yes. "
" It is wine that I made in the summer from the g rapes on the upper ridge. "
" Sleepy. Old Lucian I am sleepy."
Sleepy one, sleepy one , sleepy one, sleep with your belly filled with warm sweet wine. Sleep and sleep and sleep in slumber's somber stance. Sleepy one, sleep and sleep.
Alone? Alone . All alone. . . . Fantastic? Why indeed need he be here or there or anywhere, only care that he is; and he and I, we are the same . Understandment? There is none, only broken madness, broken by laughter and tears that are always others. Perceive, but know it not. It is within us to know , but not to understand . . . . so sleep and sleep and sleep . There is no sight for seeing eyes. No sound to break upon ears that are deaf to sound that does not fall upon them. I am a blue ribbon floating round and round in a circle of blue. I am the blue I am the circle. Going and going and going round, and round, and round I go . Around and around and around. Around and around and around
. . .. . Laughter that is heard in springtime is to be heard in fall. Footsteps , footsteps, sprinkle dust to hide them well. Ghosts are lost but haunt the hearts of a world that is wayward and tired. Ride the waves of indignant misunderstandment.
....
Sleep. Dream Alone. Sleep.
Out of the slime, our ancestors climbed and learned to climb the tree dream of Helen and kiss the lips set in the face that launched those thousand ships . . . . and Cleo, too , greeneyed and hair as red as fire , kiss her. Cresar and the young Anthony are jealous of our love . . . . little boy, go sell your apples , two for a penny , five for a dime! I, not George , cut the cherry tree He could not tell a lie Poor boy Unhappy child. Tormented soul with righteous truth budding full bloom from his forehead Parson Weems, forgive yourself but others can forget not your lie we ride to Helsingfors and there to dance the sarabande I, not David, came into the tent of the sulking Saul and played (7}
and sang of heroes old. . . . . Hold the knife steady and wait and thrust it quick and sure. There. There the deed is done, and well, yes well. It is done! Done! Flow the blood of fathers fury and mothers careless ways. Kill. Kill. It is done. And well it has been done, for now they lay dead. Now play it safe. So far so good, but play it safe. Get away while there was still time. Get away. Yes, yes. Go. Go to the mountains, there is safety. Safety. Make your way to the mountains. Go. Go while there is time the mountains now sleep and sleep. Then something new, something new in sleeping. . . . . It shook him, roared in his ears. Roused him, opened his mind
"Lad. Lad. Wake up. It is day. Lad. Lad.
"Yes." The youth pushed the sleep from his eyes. "Yes? What is it? What?"
"Lad, wake up. It is morning. Get up off the floor. Get up, lad. You've been there all night. Lad, wake up."
"Day?"
"Yes."
"Yes," the old man laughed. "You wouldn't let me put you to bed."
"I was tired."
"Well, get up lad. Get up and let us have a cup of wine before we eat. You, you like that?"
The old man took the wine skin from the wall. "They say that the police are in the hills looking for someone, lad."
"Yes?"
"They're coming this way, lad. There is a small cabin hidden up on the upper ridge, lad. Have a cup."
"Why do you tell me?"
"I like to talk."
"They aren't looking for me."
"They will be here in about an hour."
"Yes?"
'(Yes.''
"I think I'll go out and have a look at the sky."
"Good-bye, lad."
"Good-bye."
"The upper ridge, lad," the old man called as the lad left the house. "Come back soon, and we'll 'Tve been asleep all night? I slept here on the have some more wine." floor all night?" -FLETCHER
STIERS,JR.
a Road. .
Up a road and down a road
And past a crooked stream
I go to find the secret place
My true love seeks to dream.
I'll pluck a rose of deepest red
To place in her dark hair
And I shall be a happy lad
If I can find her there.
Up a road and down a road
How chill is the summer air
I found my love with another love
And a rrwhite" rose in her hair.
-PATTI BLACK.
[ 8 J
NaughtyBear
Norman ' s Teddy Bear was lost; His place in the playroom was bare He hadn't been seen since two o ' clock; We ' d looked for him everywhere.
Santa had brought him just recentlyPerhaps he had wandered from home And forgotten the way to the playroom (For bears are quite likely to roam).
We looked in the garden and sandpile And under the porch in the back And up in the branches of treesBut nowhere was Teddy, alack!
'Twas dark and the wind was blowing And stormclouds had gathered o 'e rhead; And the bear was still missing at bedtimeWe looked before going to bed .
Birthday
I'm three today; just look at me . Do I look strange to you?
I didn ' t feel so big and strong When I was only two.
-Poems by DOROTHYHUGHES (taken from her collection -Children's Poems)
TheHastyHeart
'Tve spent a moment with kings," said Sgt. Lachland MacLach l ad of his experiences in the Burma military hospital; and we were inclined to agree with him as we all poured out of the playhouse on Friday night, after witnessing John Patrick's beautiful and brilliantly written play, The Hasty Heart, ably directed by Professor Alton Williams. When produced on Broadway, this play caused great concern as to who could play the tragic little Scot with a good enough burr so as not to arouse laughter. The concern was unnecessary, for the dialogue is rapid and smooth enough to make the accents unimportant; and Lachie's lines have the burr written into them. As for laughter, we were more akin to tears as Lachie, wistfully and sensitively played by Shelley Harrell, glowered stubbornly from his cot, refuting the well-meant gestures of the assorted other patients, hailing from all parts of the world, and including among them even a big Basutan native. Which of us in that hushed audience remained immobile in the third act to his heartbreaking cry, "I dinna want to die alone. "
But the unhappy little sergeant is the better for his oddly mixed ward mates. Yank, his chief antagonist and later his chief friend, stands out as the strength and background of the cast. Whether this is intentional or not on the part of the playwright, we are not sure; but William Warren gave him to us that way, his vitality keeping the entire cast buoyed up throughout the performance. Tubby and loveable is Tommy, represented unforgettably by Clarence Doane, and whom we shall never see again on the campus without remembering the pudding named after him in England by his "old woman." Raisins he had in him, too!
Doris Vickers looked very lovely as the sympathetic and warmhearted nurse, Sister Margaret. Jack Kolcum and Arnold Fleshwood were well cast as Digger of Australia and Kiwi of New Zealand. A nice piece of pantomime was given by Raymond Dietrich as the big non-English-speaking Blossom; and though small in part Buddy Huett, as the colonel, and Bucky Cavedo, as the orderly, were not small as actors, providing an uninterrupted background for a very lovely evenmg. -F.M.
MatriculationWeek
IWILL never forget how I felt on the morning of Tuesday, September tenth. I had just come back from a wonderful vacation and was thrilled over the idea of enrolling in college after two years of military service . Today I would register ( I thought) ! I ate my breakfast and hurried out to my jeep.
It was only a few minutes until I screeched to a halt outside the Chapel. I scraped the two former pedestrians off the wheels and started up the steps A fell ow came running down the steps to meet me. He shook my hand and left, having sold me a freshman pin. I started up the steps and was stopped by a junior. He took the dollar out of my shirt pocket and handed me a card. I read it: " M EMBER-LOCAL No. 3." Continuing on up the steps a senior stopped me He offered me a " go od Westhampton phone number." Eager to be one of the boys I bought it (later it turned out to be the number of an Esso station) .
A t nine-thirty we were given a lecture and told to report to the gym at two that afternoon. A man ann ounced that veterans would not have to take a p h ysical examination. In back of me I heard someo ne scream : "I don ' t have to take it - ha ha! ! - they can't make me ." Two men in white coats carrie d him out. At ten o ' clock I went home, having go tten out of chapel. I had suffered only minor bruises in the rush.
Af t er lunch I decided to go to the gym It w as only one-thirty, and I was sure I would be at the h ead of the line . I found I w as right; there were only four hundred ahead of me. I sat do wn and coun t ed blades of grass while waitin g m y turn Sudd enly twenty vets rushed for the door. Some ra t had started a rumor that they were selling H ershey bars. At four-thirty I beg an to feel tired
I think the vet behind me was too. He keeled over. Someone muttered some Latin and we buried him After that I gave up and went home . The next day I rose early. By seven o ' clock I was at the gym. I looked at the tents dotting the campus . There was the smell of coffee, and I saw a man running around yelling: "Paper cups-one cent. You can't appreciate coffee without a paper cup." Someone told me his name was Mayo. On the athletic field jeeps were running around at terrific speed. Alarm clocks were going off everywhere
At three o ' clock I was at the top of the line There was only one man ahead of me I looked at his cap; it read: "CSA. " His grey uniform was a trifle worn. It was only a few minutes before I g ot inside. At the first desk I checked my forms and proceeded. Soon I had a Personnel form: "How m any noses do you have? (2) How many times a d ay do you brush your teeth? " I filled it out and went to the next desk . My course was g iven me and I got it checked ; it read : " Principles of Galvan-Dynam o Ostracism. Modern African.
Gyro-Automatic Surveying. Organic Physics
Principles of Somnambulism ."
At last I was finished I w ent to the last desk and th anked the kindly man there: " I am grateful ," I said .
" Stop lickin g my hand I know ," he repl i ed
D a shin g out the door , I n oticed an obviousl y brillant student studying . The cove r said : " Ho w to Win Mone y and Influence Dice ." Now I was through. I rushed down the path . I w a s in college now!!!
- WALT PRESTON.
Winter moonlight is the sheen On the gossamer wings of the fairy queen
-ALICE MASON
[ 11 ]
IFEEL that the time has come for someone to undertake a scrutinizing analysis of the brightness which suddenly has converted our campus. The whole atmosphere is permeated with a new glow of concentrated sunbeams. If you should care to open a unique field of research, then join with me as we plunge into a most interesting and radiant study of illumination.
First of all, we must concentrate upon converging rays. I am told that a prism is the proper instrument for our study. Now what is the source of one of those absurdities? It is indeed gratifying to discover that these delicate instruments can usually be found with very little manipulation on the part of the investigator. Now get this procedure' With a slight twist of the fourth finger of almost any college girl's left hand, one can find a beautiful specimen of that designated instrument. Immediately the study proceeds with added intensity. Do I see that you are beginning to despair because the procedure seems so complicated? Console yourself with the assurance that with a few more concentrated efforts, you will have a complete over-all picture. If you have the essence of the stuff, you should not stop when you are within a gnat's whisker of the solution. "Even Solomon know dat!"
With a little inductive reasoning, we put together all of our evidence, and what do we have? As we look through the prisms we see red, orange, yellow, green, blue-why, the whole spectrum! These results seem most amazing. For a closer examination, it is well to pull out a telescope, microscope, or what have you? As the lens is raised before the human eye, what a tremendous shock befalls the observer. At last all of the uncertainties of the scientist vanish; for instantly that golden glow which prevailed converts into every
known color and, at the same time, dissembles into all manner of absurd objects. But, you wish to view the over-all picture? Why, these objects are NECKTIES-hundreds and hundreds of them! And now, as we broaden our scope, it is simple to see why everything had such a golden hue; for what campus fellow does not possess those flashing admissions to 1946 manhood-a yellow sweater, socks, and necktie? But scientists cannot afford to permit other lines to overshadow the main purpose of the investigation, so once again the focus must be placed upon those cloth ornaments which adorn masculine shirt collars. Here dash groups of bucking broncos; there wave numerous palm trees; in another specimen appears a conglomeration of tennis rackets, baseball bats, footballs, and golf clubs; and still another presents snowcapped mountain peaks Why, ANYTHING appears on NECKTIES, it seems! Sombreros and saddles, an artist's easel besmeared with pastel colors, a friendly Scottie here and there, a confusing mass of phonetic signs-is there any meaning to the mass?
By now it seems that a sufficient variety of specimens has been viewed. However, to any great '.;Cientificinv~stigation such as this, some definite conclusion must be drawn. The focus of the light rays points to one great fact. The fairer sex is delighted to see this outpour of spectacular neckties, especially for the consolation it provides them in regard to their own NEW ODDLY STYLED HATS!
And so casting aside prisms, microscopes, telescopes, and all of those other silly devices, everyone is happy to see with only his natural vision, that happy campus days are back again! Now , "AIN'T DAT SO?"
-HANNAH BARLOW.
CampusLuminescence
Friendship is a living fire that must be constantly tended lest it die of neglect.
-PEGGY HARRIS. [ 12}
Outletof Melancholy
Through the stillness
The song of a lone bird
Filled the morn.
'Twas not a happy melody, not the tune That cries "awake, fly high with me Across the heavens, through light And dark, through all infinity."
Just a song, not a symphony, for In some distant field lay his mate, Still and cold, feathers moist with pearls of dew , A bullet in her breast.
I saw the roses Shining through their foliage , And longed to touch them, To feel the velvet petals, damp with dew. Yet, I knew within myself They were not real: They were but the covering For a canvas, rough and dry with years
I turned in fear, And fled unto the shore. The high grass swayed gently, combed by an unseen hand. And as I watched, The sun broke slowly through the clouds Beyond the river's curve. Once more had I found peace of mind.
-SETH DARROW.
Alonenow-
Promise
When ' s tomorrow?
Night can be dark
And the waiting long
When we're apart. Will the morning never come ?
Dear one
Darkness is emptiness
That you alone can fill
With light and love
Even stardust now seems pale , For how compares a candle gleam
With the glorious dawning of the sun ?
Night rustlingsHow lonesome and promiseless. It's your laughter I would like to hear , Warm and reassuring
As the rainbow ribboned rays of morning: Only quiet now
But for the night wind
Sighing through the trees , Soft and caressing as your whispered w ords , I love you, dear.
Somewhere you ' re waiting too
You know the empty longing For the day
That seems so slow in coming. Do you listen to the clock
Chime out the endless hours?
Hours that are as months
Of lone!y waiting .. .. .
Alone still-
But with the promise now
That always comes with dawn
One as full of hope and faith
As the new day waiting to be born
A promise that two have made , One to the other , Woven it into a prayer; And asked of God that it may be fulfilled Tomorrow.
-ALICE MASON.
14}
WHICH book club do you belong to? What with all the Books of the Month, Literary Guilds, and clubs advertised that send . you one leather-bound classic a month as well as a book to read, it is not unusual nowadays to run into people who have read reams of best sellers and can tell you anything at all about anythingfrom lovemaking in the seventeenth century to raising chickens in Washington State. We recall to mind a woman we met in the train coming East, and who engaged us in Literary Conversation. We w ere very impressed and asked her about several of our favorites which, looking puzzled, she admitted total ignorance of. So then we asked her what she HAD read ( only not in that tone, of course ) and, listening to a long spiel of novels, ealized our error. We had simply had the wrong club! The most entertaining part of the conversation to us was, however, once we had righted ourselves and talked some more and told her some good books we had read ( of other clubs) that she then con£essed to being chairman of a literary club in her home .town out on a western plain somewhere and asked us if we might come and lectur e there sometime! We will always regret that w e did not do so. The only time we were ever asked to talk!
W ell, we think book clubs are all very nice, cult ured and all that; however, we do regret that there is not some way to bring to readers' attention some of the wonderful books of other days past-days when books were not pictured in lurid color s, and printed along with the B.0. advertisemen ts on the back sheet of the funny papers. Somewhere, we have heard tell, there is something called a book find club which, for the sum of one dollar ($1) monthly, will send you some book raised up fr om the past so that indeed you might be offered a brief respite from modern best sellers; but all
"It'stheScotchIn
Us"
we know about this club is from hearsay and we cannot enlarge upon it further. (We will be glad if anyone knowing more about this will send us ten cents and a stamped envelope.) This club seems to have a good idea as well as a rate on our level, but there again one is a victim of the club's own taste which is, we think, a risk even for a dollar. An old salt, retired as far as possible from his former site of occupation, might be subjected to numerous sea stories, whereas some heretofore complacent hausfrau might be driven nuts by novels dealing with psychological cases.
One of the greatest delights to us in recent years has been the advent of the pocketbook which comes small, compact, and for a quarter. Actually there are Pocketbooks, Bantam books, Penguinbooks and, just as we were going to press we noticed a whole new set, their covers dripping with gore. But they are all pocketbooks to us. The Pocketbook people put on a big advertising campaign lately and found advertising pays-with a vengeance! For not only did pocketbook sales go up, but also the sales of all the other little twenty-fivecenters, which shows that they are all the same to everyone else, too. Although given a good deal to westerns and murders, these little books have taken a step up lately and appear to be putting out, besides some nice anthologies, a lot of the old favorites we were speaking of a couple of paragraphs ago. To be sure we were somewhat taken aback to see Madame Curie selling for a quarter among them ( it seemed a little undignified, that's all), but it was withal a welcome sight and if you ever have the time it would probably prove the best book bargain you ever made. Another welcome sight, of rather lighter content, was The Great Gatsby, by F. Scott Fi t zgerald whom some people consider a genius and some people consider trash. We are in the upper middle somewhere ourselves, and, genius or trash, must admit to always enjoying him immensely. Most of his books and short stories ( also recommended) take place in and after World War I, most of his heroes at sometime graduate from Yale. His writing is light, conversational, and written with humor. If you have never read him, try him sometime, and a good beginner is The Great Gatsby who, great as he was, [ 15]
never really got what it was he really wanted.
And if you like humor •in your reading, another worthwhile pocketbook is Long, Long Ago, by Alexander W oollcott, a collection of stories and anecdotes told in the famous Woollcottian manner. The jacket says "39 Stories About Famous People," presumably trying to lure in any celebrity hounds, but we consider Woollcott enough of a celebrity himself to make this unnecessary. W oollcott was, as you know ( and you certainly ought to, biographies and volumes of his letters are now popping out all over the place like mushrooms after the rain), not only a great lover of fine and beautiful literature, but also the Grand Old Man of the theater and knew all the people he wrote of intimately. Therefore, the first thirteen chapters of this book dealing with such people as Katherine Cornell, Orson Welles, and George Bernard Shaw are far more interesting than any such articles might be written by some reporter on an assignment. " George Gershwin," says Woollcott, "was like you and me, profoundly interested in himself, but unlike us he had no habit of pretense."
When Gershwin remarked wistfully one evenmg:
"I wonder if my music will be played a hundred years from now? " Oscar Levant replied bitterly : "It will be if you are still alive."
W oollcott was a murder fan, too. There is a section devoted to crimes called, appropriately enough, Ways That Are Dark, which includes
several famous cases, some never solved yet. Ther e are stories of famous people of yesterday, such as Jane Austen, A. E. Housman, and Emily Dickinson, and stories of his two great friends, Hele n Keller and Anne Macy Sullivan. But we can go on all night about this book, which we have, since its purchase, toted around the campus reading extracts of to anyone who will listen . Other enjoyables in these little editions ha ve been, Wind , Sand and Stars, by Saint-Exupery, fo r its simplicity and beauty; Jalna and The W hiteoa k s of Jalna-if you have not become involved wit h the Whiteoaks up until now your life is pret ty dull. We usually take along one of the Jalna boo ks ( and there are dozens of them , written by Ma zo de la Roche) on long , dull train trips and lo ok up from the last chapter to find ourselves thereeven from coast to coast! The Last Time I Sau· Paris, by Elliot Paul is good , giving a sort of dmestic view of Paris and the little people amo ng the events immediately preceding the war. Dra w n and Quartered is a book of delightfully grisly ca rtoons by Charles Adams of The New York er. Remember, he was the man who created the skier whose tracks run either side of the tree! And if you still have a quarter left, you may find a cop y of Thurber's Men , Women , and Dogs which nee ds no recommendation. And if you do find it let us know, because we have looked everywhere for a copy for ourselves!
-FELICITY McDONALD.
Loneliness
While in solitude I sit and muse
On life, I hear a wistful sigh.
'Tis loneliness, who makes joy fuse
Across the centuries of earth and sky.
Ah! daughter of depression and despair
Seek not with frosty glance my soul to chill, But find seclusive shade and solemn air
Away on yonder solitary hill.
Death-herald of eternity, Come swiftly like the fragile butterfly
And nimbly set my sorrowed spirit free
From this bleak world. Oh gladly would I die!
For though on earth there is discord and strife,
To be alone is to be losing life.
-HELEN PORTER.
THE MESSENGER
UNIVERSITY OF RICHMOND
Editor-in-Chief
FLETCHER STIERS, JR.
Westhampton College Editor
PEGGY HARRIS
Richmond College Editor
ALBERT SALEEBY
Art Editor
LAVINIA WATSON Business Manager FRANK WENTZEL
Assistant Art Editor
SETH DARROW
VERDA SLETTEN
HANNAH BARLOW
WILMA LUM
Assistant Business Manager
FELICITY McDONALD
Editorial Staff
GEORGIA KILPATRICK
MARY HASKELL
JAMES RICHMOND
PAT VELENOVSKY
Contact Staff
ALICE MACON LETITIA EARLL
FRANCES HIX
HATHAWAY POLLARD
PATRICIA BLACK
CLAUDIA DORRAN
BARBARA ANN RODEWALD MILDRED BELLOWS
VIVIAN BORTON MARION fEIBER
KATHLEEN MALLORY
VOLUMEi'X-C:IV OCTOBER, 1946 NUMBER 1
CollegeSpirit
ON ALL HALLow's EVE those of us who care to soar to the land of make believe, find in that fantastic world goblins and spirits. However, Halloween comes but once a year and with the dawn the spirits are dispersed into nothingness.
Yet, on our campus, spirits of cooperation, friendship, and loyalty move daily among us. Perhaps some of us are unaware of their presence, but if we, the majority, who do perceive them, foster and cherish them, they will grow to such proportions that none can fail to realize that these spirits actually exist and need only our interest for their survival.
There is a different feeling, the returning students tell us. Could it be the fine efforts and alert
energies of President Modlin, or the constructive guidance of Dean Pinchbeck and Dean Woodfin, who have held high the standards set by their predecessors, or should we look for the answer in the quotation made by Dean Woodfin recently in chapel-"He to whom much has been given, from ;, him is much expected." 1 '
The University has always had a lot to offer its students, but perhaps it has taken the war and the returning veterans to shake us out of our complacency-to make us realize just how fortunate we are to be allowed the privilege of gaining knowledge under such pleasant conditions when so many are being denied the opportunity.
And with our morale high, the spirits in our h({arts thrive and multiply and seep forth into the light. Surely you have seen them. They were in the thundering applause and in the tears in the eyes of the Westhampton girls as Dean Woodfin announced that "grade campus" was no more; they'll be riding to the Duke game on the bus, heartily approved of by Miss Hamilton; they shroud Dean Grey as he goes about his task of backing and organizing a band; they perch on the desk and the camera of "Joe" Nettles, and they throng among the boys on the football squad because here they are fed by the Coaching Staff, headed by Coach Fenlon. Of course, they fret if any of us get up to leave the game at the third quarter because the boys who play are their heroes and they can't leave, but they are appeased somewhat when they notice th~ attractive programs, the performances between halves, and the valiant efforts of the cheerleaders.
I know you won't believe it unless you're in the right frame of mind, but we overheard a conversation between two spirits the other day. One asked the other why he stayed on at the University of Richmond, and he replied because he liked the democratic attitude which made everyone feel that he or she had a part to play. Then the first spirit asked what he charged for services rendered, and the second spirit replied that all he asked was the continued vigilance of each of his adopted family in maintaining the high morale so that he might be assured of a permanent home.
