The University of Richmond MESSENGER
VOLUME LXXVII
EDITORIAL OFFICERS
Editor-in-Chief
VIRGINIA LESUEUR
Richmond College Editor
DouG CLARK
Westhampton College Editor
KAY BEALE
Law School Editor
RICHARD SMOUSE
Business Manager
LINWOOD MATTHEWS
Art Editor
SUE PETERS
Layout Editor
NOLA TEXLEY
Exchange Editor
JANE CATHER
STAFF
Bob Beasley, Sue Bentley, June Bostick, Al Coates, John Dorsey, Barb Ferre, Donna Carol Hyatt, Anne Holmes, Faye Kilpatrick, Jean Merritt, June Pair, Ed Roberson, Seeman W aranch.
2
PEABODY'SPAGE
IPEABODY, the literary spider, remain unshaken. Scandals and rumors of scandals have • rocked the nation, but I have kept all eight p aws on the ground. "West Point" and "William and Mary" have been the battle cries of the football abolitionists, but still this scourge of autumn flourishes. Each Saturday afternoon it becomes more difficult for me to read my Horace as the co llegiates, deaf but enthusiastic, turn up the volume on the play-by-play reports.
It's not that I object to this mass outlet for supp r essed sadists. Let the frustrated find release. It's just the wholesaleness that's appalling. These days everyone tries to have a football team, even Richmond. But then this is the NEW ERA.
With The Decline and Fall in one hand and my ivory cigarette holder in one of the others I ret urned from my summer of scholarly research to fin d that a new set of edit<Jrs had invaded my domain. These, even more green and uninspired than their predecessors, had committed the grossest sacrilege: they had swept the cobwebs from the MESSENGERoffice! As if they edit this august slick anyway. However I, Peabody, shall humor their illu sions of grandeur; for it is the only way. Next month I publish the first volume of a series on "T he Abnormal Psychology of MESSENGEREditor s." They all have persecution complexes.
My days in my ancestral Play House office are numbered. Soon my fourth-floor garret in the befabl ed Student Activities Building will be complete d and I shall have to venture into untried fields. I must admit, as I put out this last issue amid the now beloved sulphur fumes and smoke streaks, my heart is heavy and there is mist on my hornrims.
" T he old order changeth, giving place to the new," and even the Sloppe Shoppe has been abandoned for this upstart Dry Dock. The atmosphere there is so aquatic that I get seasick over my morning chocolate milk. And Mayo has installed that insidious monster, television. I abhor movies, but at lea st I had the satisfaction of staying away. Th ere ' s no escape from this television. And I was almost decapitated the afternoon that the Giants won the play-off. One is not safe out of one's woodwork any more.
OCTOBER, 1951
This is the season of alumni migration ( the psych department says their urge is no less powerful than in some lower animals-i.e., the wild goose) . Each year more sentimental than the last, they return to the site of their youthful follies. I always wear my oilskin on this day of days, as much for protection from reminiscent tears as from the traditional precipitation. This year Dean Gray, sans mustache, and Miss Lutz with her clippings of "Shakespearean" Pogo greeted the old grads. This is indeed a new era. For weeks before the Day of the Floats, the collegiates debated nightly over their River Road quarterdrinks the question of whether originality can outdo truckloads of pulchritude. The undergrads survived numerous hammer-scarred thumbs to voice their eternal cry, "We wuz robbed!''
As if football and homecoming aren't enough! This is open season for frat rushing. The battle of the year has grown so furious that I have decided to include a few choice scenes for the benefit of the frosh. The glad hand is extended and statistics of campus wheels are worn threadbare in hopes of enticing these men-in-demand. The freshman's best girl is still more interested in the number of pearls in the fraternity pin. Oh, the vanity of womanhood.
-PEABODY.
EXPECTATIONS, Uncle Conrad had written. He had left me to nourish expectations. What, I wondered, would nourish me? My savings were gone-quite melted away by the expense of my uncle's funeral-and expectations do not pay the rent.
I was like the little boy who had wished for a pony on Christmas and had awakened to find only the dung; I was stunned. Uncle Conrad had kept his promise, all right : the blue pearls were mine -but so were nine ounces of Uncle Conrad's own special formula of dynamite . This was my inheritance, all in the same box. It was everything or nothing; there could be no separation of the two.
For a long time I could only stand in horrordisbelief-trying to convince myself that the whole ghastly letter was a joke. Then slowly the blood came back into my numbed brain and finger tips; I knew that it was joke-the last grim jest
self had done on that fateful day I had so foolishly believed him my benefactor. I began to take a hypnotic sort of pleasure in shutting the box up tightly in the drawer, closing it in from the light and air with the same satisfaction I should have received in slamming the lid of Uncle Conrad's coffin on his hideous grinning countenance.
It would be so easy to turn the little key in its lock. . . The thought stayed with me-ate with me, worked with me-and slept with me. Every night I dreamed I would approach my dresser, jerk open the drawer and, trembling slightly, I would thrust the key into its keyhole ; then as I gently turned the key, the electric alarm clock would blare out, and the box, the blue pearl necklace and I would be blasted to kingdom-come
It was, to the day, one month after Uncle Conrad ' s funeral that, having been unmercifully aroused in this violent fashion for the seventh consecutive morning, I jerked the confounded
BLUE PEARLS
of a crazy man-and the joke was on me. Even now the costly coffin that I had bought must be shaking with his own hollow laughter.
Not until the moment I had this thought did I become angry. Quietly then I cursed Uncle Conrad; I exhausted my whole limited repertoire of profanity, revoked every hypocritical prayer I had uttered for his soul; and then my tension dissolved and I was sorry. I would devise a plan; I would have the jewels yet, and I would have Kathryn! I carefully slipped the miserable letter into my inside coat pocket, slammed the safe door shut and left the Trust Company. Clutching the box with both hands I walked to my boardinghouse, crept unseen up the stairs to my two-room apartment and locked the door behind me like a criminal. I would keep the box with me; and somehow I would get it open!
I placed it in the top dresser drawer with my ties, and ·each morning before I dressed to go to work I stood there looking into the drawer-fascinated, planning and contriving. The box began to remind me strangely of Uncle Conrad. It was cold as a corpse-it was rich and stingy - it was dangerous . Once I even fancied it had Uncle Conrad ' s features, and as I closed the drawer, I saw it grin at me , maliciously , as Uncle Conrad him4
clock from the wall by its roots and hurled it through semidark space. There was the splintering crash of smashed glass; I smiled with gri m satisfaction and turned over. The strong aroma of over-stewed coffee had drifted upstairs and unde r the locked door into my room, but instead of drawing me from between the covers this morning as it usually did, it only repelled me and I pushe d deeper into the misshapen pillow which had oozed halfway out of its wrinkled case. The coffee smelled like the vile black stuff Kathryn and I ha d talked over in the smoke-filled little Italian caf e on Tenth Street the night before, the first time I' d seen her since Uncle Conrad ' s death. We h ad talked and the coffee had gotten cold.
"Kathryn, I suppose you know why I asked you to come here tonight? " It made me timid all of a sudden to be talking to her , to have her wi de brown eyes looking frankly into my own tired and reddened ones
"I think so, " she said simply, then added , "I haven ' t changed my mind. "
" Things have changed, " I began
"Not with me."
"No, I mean circumstances. I'm rich, Kathry n ." Kathryn's smile was full of sympathy for the UNIVERSITY MESSENGER
p oor fool who sat opposite her.
' Tm serious," I continued carefully. 'Tm dead serious, Kathryn-now I can support a wife. . . . "
"Mushroom finances? Is that what you've been doing this month-robbing banks?" she jested . The corners of my mouth twitched without will on my part; I knew she'd wondered why I hadn't h ounded her with phone calls for the past few weeks as I usually did.
' 'I've been thinking," I explained. "No!"
"Oh, be serious, will you?" Then I bit my tongue. I never spoke crossly to Kathryn. ''I've been thinking about . . . well . . I've been th inking things over." Then I revealed the story of Uncle Conrad's will, pro tanto-the little iron box, the jewels-but careful not to mention the letter, and watched with interest the light in her eyes as I dwelled lingeringly and descriptively on the matter of the blue pearls-jewels I had never
I must be at my best, and I slipped two of the little white pills onto my tongue and went back to bed. For the first time in a month I slept soundly and undisturbed.
It was very dark when I awoke; I don't know what time it was nor exactly what happened, but I think I was boiling stale coffee in the small electric percolator in the living room when Kathryn tapped at the door. I let her in quietly, locked the door again, and sank into the divan to drink my coffee. I regarded her silently; she sat on the edge of something across the room, and though her cheeks were flushed, she removed neither her coat nor her gloves. She returned my stare.
''I've come to see the pearls," she whispered at last, eagerly, I thought. It wasn't like Kathryn to be eager.
I drained my coffee cup, looking into it to discriminate carefully between the last drop of good coffee and the dregs.
AND DYNAMITE
seen , but which I knew I must see if Kathryn accepted my proposal. She was quiet for a long time before she spoke.
· " I can ' t marry you," she repeated, finally. "I can never marry you. But you will let me see the pearls?" She had changed at once from a determined young · woman to an excited child. Now I held the trump card.
" Yes,'' I smiled. "Yes, you may see them. When you promise to marry me. " * * * ,"'.
Sunlight began to stream in through the locked window between the cracks of the blinds. I got up and staggered toward my dresser. My distorted reflection looked back at me from the mirror; the delicate entrails of the alarm clock lay on top of the dresser scattered among bits of fractured glass. I opened the drawer. Uncle Conrad grinned at me as usual, but this time I didn't start; I ignored the iron box and reached for a much smaller one under the ties. It was made of new cardboard and it,scontents rattled. I had finally promised to show Kathryn the blue pearls if she came to my apartment to see them and she had reluctantly agreed to come this very night. There -y.rouldbe soft music, I decided-much ·red wine and Ettle light. I would at last persuade her to marry me; I knew OCTOBER, 1951
"You' re impatient," I heard myself saying, "There's plenty of time for that." It was as though someone else were speaking. "Kathryn, I want you to marry me. I love you. Surely you must feel something . . . "
"No. Nothing." I remember noticing for the first time that her eyes were not brown, but black.
"You do know that I love you, don't you?'' No, no, not this way; what about the music, the wine? It was no use; the words came anyway. "You know that, don't you, Kathryn?"
"It's very late," she commented by 'way of answering me. "Please show me the blue pearls, and then I'll go."
The red wine was outside of my bedroom window. The potential soft music was filed away in my record album. Kathryn had spoken with the most final sort of finality.
Suddenly the dim room became dimmer; blackness closed in on an ever-shrinking circle of light that was Kathryn. 'TU show you the pearls . . " I began, and ~hen there was a hammer in my brain that pounded first one side and then another of my skull.
"What's the matter?" She was beside me, her (Continued on page 15)
THE TALK of the other seven girls at the table passed back and forth in front of her as she sat concentrating on her dinner plate.
T'he laughter and voices from the other tables in the big dining hall combined into a happy, carefree sound. But she could not reach it. Their jokes, their laughter, their songs were meaningless. During the rare moments of silence at her table she felt everyone was eyeing her, waiting expectantly. She felt her face grow hot, and her fork began to tremble on its upward movements.
When the meal was fini~hed, the girls left the table together, but by the time they had reached the dining-room door and had begun to climb the stairs to the living room, she was behind the rest. Their conversation floated back to her, but only vaguely.
Once in the living room, the groups scattered to different corners to play bridge and talk for the few minutes before the evening's study began. She walked across the room quickly, hearing the voices of each group grow hushed as she approached, and quickly resume when she had gone by. Thoreau, Whitman-who had said that it was easier to be alone in a crowd than all by yourself? She couldn't remember.
She walked quickly down the hall and into her room. Standing with her back to the closed door, she let her gaze travel slowly from object to object. She could hear the laughter and voices from the bridge games and gossip in the living room. The voices. grew louder, seemed deafening, thundering, mocking and taunting her exclusion from their belongingness. She whirled away from them, went to the door, and found herself walking down the hall and entering a strange room.
Three football programs were tacked to the moldings; dance programs and the withered remains of gardenia corsages were pinned to the dozen pennants scattered on the walls.. On one desk was the beginning of an English theme and a pile of chemistry books. A tennis racket and balls were lying carelessly on one bed; stuffed animals and a riding crop were on the other. She picked up the tennis racket and walked out of the room. She heard footsteps approaching from around the corner, but she got to her room without meeting anyone. The footsteps and the voices growing
louder-the tennis racket she was holding. She threw it to the top shelf of her closet and began pushing her clothes aimlessly back and forth on the rack as the door opened and her roommate and another girl came in. They glanced at her , muttered a casual "Hi" and went on with their conversation. She gathered up her books and went to the library to study.
When she entered the living room the next evening after dinner, the girls were pushing the furniture against the walls, rolling up the rugs, and connecting the phonograph in preparation for the informal dance the Dorm was having at eight o'clock. She dodged the swiftly moving furniture and headed for her room. Safely inside she sat down, only to hear those laughing voices. . . . The tennis racket, alone, up on the top shelf. . . . She got up, opened the door carefully, and wandered down the hall to an open door. She pause d a moment, surveyed the contents of the room, the n proceeded to the dresser. She picked up the gree n leather jewelry box. She took it back to her roo m and placed it on the shelf with the tennis racke t. Saturday morning the girls were busy wit h classes, but that afternoon the Dorm was deserte d She tried to sleep; she tried to answer the lett er she had received from her parents in the mornin g mail, but she had no answers for their many que stions about what she was doing. The tennis racke t, the jewelry box, the laughing voices, and now on ly the silence, deafening silence, all around. . . .
Now there was no more room on the top shelf . She looked at the odd collection there and gather ed the typewriter, the sweaters and the tennis rack et in her arms and started down the hall to the bas ement steps. On a small landing halfway to t he washroom she paused, set a few of the thin gs down, and tried the door.
It opened and ahead of her she saw the dirt flood and tunnel-like interior of the basement under the living room. Only the light from t he doorway guided her. She stumbled several tim es over boxes and newspapers, and ran into a hea vy wooden box. She leaned down cautiously. Not hing. She put her load, piece by piece, into the depths of the box, and made her way back to the doorway. She repeated this operation until the (Continued on page 13)
UNIVERSITYMESSENGER
THE FORLORNRANGER
Written
and directed by
Barb Ferre
Starring: The Forlorn Ranger, upholder of justice, on his famous horse, Plutorium. Love-um-wampum, his faithful Indian companion and guide, astride his surefooted burro.
Lucious Lu-lu, the beautiful, red-eyed victim of a villain's treachery.
Senor Pabla Pancha, dastardly troublemaker of the West.
THE Forlorn Ranger and Love-um-wampum are traveling through the still desert night when they hear a pitiful sob.
Determining the direction of the sob, they gallop toward it with their faithful mounts following close behind them. The sobs get louder until finally they arrive at the modest home of Lucious Lu-lu. They knock down the door with pounding hearts. Inside they find Lucious Lu-lu sitting demurely on the chandelier amidst a lake of tears. Th e heroes lose no time in paddling to her side to sputter their promises of help. Lu-lu, sensing that they are true friends and that Love-um-wampum is not a very good swimmer, stops her flood of tears and sighs. As the water gradually subsides she tells her story.
For many years Lucious Lu-lu has had to struggle to make a living for herself and her poor deceased grandfather. Recently her time has been spent cultivating a small oil well in her back yard which she drilled to raise money for the mortgage payments. Now, just six hours before the final sum must be paid to the villainous Sefior Pancha, every cent has been stolen.
W ho stole the money?
T he answer is obvious. Only Sefior Pancha knew where the money was kept. And only Sefior Pancha could have left a note in his own handwriting saying " Pay or else! Heh, heh."
T he Forlorn Ranger whispers instructions to Love-um-wampum who, because he has sensitive ears, giggles delightedly. TI:ie Forlorn Ranger leaps into his saddle and waits impatiently while his companion straps it on the horse. Then the Indian mounts his sure-footed burro and they ride off t o find the culprit.
After five hours of l'iding through a biting duststorm they arrive at the edge of a canyon where
OCTOBER, 1951
they recognize the unmistakable hoof prints of Sefior Pabla Pancha's famous three-legged horse. The hoof prints indicate that Pancha has descended the precarious trail to the canyon floor where he will be protected from the storm and the revenge of Lucious Lu-lu. The heroes decide to go down. Love-um-wampum, on his sure-footed burro, leads the way. The night is dark and the trail treacherously narrow.
When they stop falling they are at the bottom of the canyon where they escape serious injury by landing in a deep pool of water which is unusually soft in the area. The wily villain is aroused by the commotion and a terrific gun battle results. Sefior Pancha is quickly subdued. The Forlorn Ranger is unscratched and Love-um-wampum soon recovers from six superficial flesh wounds.
Sefior Pabla Pancha is put behind bars and the grateful heroine tries to show her appreciation to the humble hero who steadfastly refuses any compensation for his bravery save 50 per cent of the proceeds of her oil well.
Overwhelmed by his generosity, she weeps happy puddles into the desert as the two companions ride off into the setting sun.
"So what if he's eager? He's a potential wheel."
By Sue Peters.
"Think
"And beg
ARTWORK
of the Greek Week Skit."
MAND
k Nears
"You know what a
"B.O. or no B.O., he's a legacy."
ENGRA YING on this page Sponsored by Phillip's Place
SHOES AND A BROOM
dark but gay, the room rocked
BARBARA'S brown skin shone with moisture; the little wisps of black corkscrew near her hairline that she had combed up so carefully in the morning lay along her neck now, drowned and dripping. Her starched white uni form no longer indicated either starch or whiteness; neither did the appearance of her muchpolished flat white shoes do justice to the time she ha d spent on them the night before. Barbara's shoulders ached a little. She looked at the clock cemented in the wall of the second floor ladies' lounge and restroom of the Devondale departmen t store, wondering if his arms got as tired as he rs did-he had moved the long one around as many times today as she had pushed the heavy broom over little black and white tiles. No, he probably didn't; after all, it was she who had to race with him-he only stuck up there and moved at his own leisurely pace.
A blue paper bag bearing the Devondale name lay on the floor near the row of vanities. It bulged somewhat, though when Barbara stooped to pick it up she found it empty except for a lone sales slip. She deposited the bag in the trash can and continued sweeping.
" Excuse me, Ma'am."
Barbara didn't like to sweep under the vanities. Th ere were always many pairs of high-heeled feet under them; one for each pair of arched eyebrows that arched even higher in the reflection tha t stared back out at her when its respective pair of feet had to move; a pair for each pair of red lips that pulled tight at the corners when she came by with the broom. She no longer looked at the reflections-only at the feet. Both had stories to tell, but the mirrored mascaraed faces didn't talk to peo ple like Barbara. Shoes spoke to anyone who would listen.
"Excuse one, Ma'am." Barbara deftly explored und erneath one of the vanities-beyond a pair of the most beautiful green alligator pumps she ever hoped to see. Her broom dabbed weakly at the black and white tiles, then shrank automatically from the dignified presence of the green shoes, bearing in its wake a motley tangle of dusty hair, stray hairpins, and the toilet tissue imprints of OCTOBER,1951
odd and variously shaped lips-red hieroglyphs of the cosmetic age. Ashamed of its load, the broom crept all the way back to Barbara's own white-but not white-polished-but not polished -work-worn shoes.
Dark but gay, the room rocked. Pairs and pairs of feet beat out the rhythm of brassy jazz and as many pairs of dark-skinned hands clapped light palms together simultaneously. White eyes and laughing white teeth circled the room; and the eyes were all focused on a paif of clicking green alligator pumps that flashed to and fro in the center of the room. The green shoes were not alone, but danced a wild rhythm with a much larger pair of brown and white ones; and hands clapped and feet shuffied and the green alligator pumps flashed faster and faster and faster.
"Are you going to stand there permanently?" The toe of one alligator pump thumped the tiles impatiently.
"Oh, I'm sorry." Barbara moved away without looking at the reflection in the mirror, but she could in her mind see two plucked lines arching sarcastically.
"Excuse me, Ma'am." The shoes under the next vanity were brown and low. Good shoes-expensive-but they looked as though they might enjoy walking to the hospital and carrying flowers to someone.
"Certainly .... " The voice definitely belonged with the shoes, and this time Barbara did look at the mirror. It was a much-lined face that she saw, softly framed with white hair, but the lines had been carved by the gentle sculptors, Smile and Sympathy. "Just don't sweep under my feet," she added gaily-'Tm superstitious," and she moved backward while Barbara looked into the reflection of her eyes and grinned with her. This time the broom didn't shrink away, but did its job thoroughly, paying its respects to the brown shoes as it came out past them and stopping humbly at Barbara's serviceable white ones with its booty of dust and hair and bowlegged bobby-pins.
Th e tiny windows were open, yet their worn but starched curtains made no motion. Near one
(Continued on p age 15)
American History Atomic Style
CHAPTER I-Mocking the Turtle
American History, simply enough, began in Spain. There lived Christopher Columbus whose name was linked in court gossip with Queen Isabella. Enraged at this, King Ferdinand 1 sent him off ta sea in hopes that he would fall off the edge of the giant turtle which all intelligent men knew held the world. But Columbus thought the earth was round. A turtle, how ridiculous! One morning a sailor cried "Land, ho"hum" ( it was very early), and behold! Columbus had discovered the under side of the turtle.
CHAPTER II-Colonial Period
By 1607, the saying of Horace Greenley "Go west, young man, so you can be an FFV," had reached the English, and it was in that year that they founded the colony at Jamestown. 2 The years immediately following this are called the colonial period (all the FFV's used Eau de Tobacceau). The leading figure in Virginia in those days was Colonial William Byrd. The Byrds are still running the state 3 50 years later.
In 1689, there were enough men in America to form a good-sized army, so somebody started a war with the French. This war continued over a period of some seventy-five years because every time we would capture some territory the English would sign a treatry and give it back. 3 Finally in 1763 we won, or let us say the British won; we are not we yet; that happens in the next chapter.
CHAPTpR III-Revolting Developments
About this time England got a nasty old King, George III, who started taxing us like mad. 4 Also some Indians, poorly disguised as white men, held the Boston Tea Party at which they tried to steep the tea in Boston Harbor. Everybody on both sides of the Atlantic got sore about this; and since it was about time for a war anyway, we had a regular revolution.
The heroes of this scrap were the Minute Men
1 For a complete biography , see Ferdinand the Bull,
2 Despite the claims of the William and Mary Alumni Association, that college was not founded until the fall after the Jamestown settlement.
3 This was a damn-fool thing to do.
'Also they thought. They should have lived in 1951.
(they're 24-month men now.) Finally, with the help of the French we succeeded in trapping the British General Cornwallis at Yorktown where he was spending the night at the Horse Thief Inn. We caught him with his pants down, so to speak. The British by now were willing to admit that we were too durn independent and that ended that, fo; 'the time being anyway.
CHAPTER IV-The Infant Child
Now the poah little United States drew up its Constitution 5 and settled down. For their first President the people chose General George Washington. Washington, as the saying goes, was first in war, fir.st in peace, and the only president who did not tell lies.
The second president, John Adams, was succeeded by Thomas Jefferson, that Southern gentleman and founder of the University of Virginia. 6 Jefferson was the man who established the precedent of acting in opposition t o his political philosophy. Modern presidents find it more convenient to have no philosophy; campaign platforms are said to be the next to go.
CHAPTER V ..:_oops!
The war of 1812 which began in 1812 scarcely deserves our consideration for we historians have long since written that off as A BIG MISTAKE
CHAPTER VI-Southern Victory 1865
The next president to remember 7 was numbe r 16, Abraham Lincoln. He was only President o f the United States until the South seceded an d formed the CONFEDERATE ST A TES O F AMERICA, the capital of which was Richmond , Virginia.
The War Between the States ( erroneousl y called the Civil War in filthy Yankee propaganda ) is one continuous tale of Confederate heroism and victory. The most important battle of the war was the charge of the VMI Cadets at New Market an d the only Southern defeat of note the Yankee cap -
"Mostly plagiarism from earlier English document.
"These supposedly contradictory appositives can on ly be explained by Schizophrenia.
7Unless you have Dr, McDanel, in which case it is mandato ry that you know the names, dates , party affili ation, church affiliation and collar size of all thirty-three presidents.
UNIVERSITYMESSENGER
A CHALLENGINGGIFT
DRINKING a coke in the Dry Dock or passing the new Alumni-Student Center on our way to class, we find it hard to realize that at last it is completed. During the years we have been at the University, and for many before that, this building has been a symbol of the future. Now it is a reality.
Since 1916 the alumni, realizing the extreme campus need for a center of student activities, have been raising money for this building. It was a long, hard campaign-as soliciting funds always is-and even now they must raise another $50,000 to complete payment for the building. At last the fund grew large enough to begin construction, and on July 23, 1950, ground was broken.
All of us on campus have watched with interest and affection the progress of the building from the time when excavation made us fear resemblance to the catacombs through the orange-girder stage which we of the magazine celebrated with a cover. After the Korean-inspired shortage of building materials became acute we feared the worst, but bricks soon put meat on the steel bones and by last spring we were getting a pretty good idea of what the finished product would resemble.
The biggest thrill of all, of course, was the first time we walked into the post office, through the Dry Dock and on a forbidden tour of the other three floors. In the memorial lounge we could almost see a fire on the unfinished hearth, phantom groups congregated in the recreation room, and on the fourth floor we envisioned Peabody in his editorial glory among the unsealed steel beams.
Through the student activities building the alumni are making a great contribution to University life. Besides protecting us from the physical threats of falling fire-charred timbers in the Playhouse, they give us a place to have our club and organizational meetings, to get our hair cut and to recreate. This fall it is interesting to compare this alumni project with another one, the football team. Even had we had an undefeated season, we do not believe that its impact on future University life could measure up to the use of a similar amount of money given to the building program. A winning team may live in song and
story, but the Alumni-Student Center will live in fact for years to come.
But in giving us this building, we of the MESSENGER feel, the alumni also present us with a challenge to make the most of it. No longer in our extracurricular activities do we have the excuse of poor facilities and unpleasant surroundings, for tile and concrete have replaced the plank s and sunshine supersedes the mustiness of the Playhouse. We have the material wherewith to work , and the end-product is our responsibility.
The first step forward is that there should be an improvement in the quality of student activities. Clubs should show positive advancement in the scope and content of their programs and projects. In the field of publications a central office used for something more than a collection plac e for junk should unify and give impetus to th e three staffs.
Another challenge presented by the activitie s center, we believe, is that of increasing studen t participation in extracurricular activities. Studen ts who have not heretofore used their talents outside of the classroom should be interested in Un iversity projects. We also hope to see in this Cent er a moulding of University spirit through coope ration of Westhampton, Richmond College, the Business School and other University of Richmo nd divisions. No longer do endeavors of both sides of the lake have to list towards Westhampton and its Keller Hall. Here will be a place of coordin ation for all :Jniversity activities.
A feeling of alumni-student unity of purp ose is the third goal in using the Center. A contrib uting factor to the working together of the und ergrads and former students will be the location of the alumni office in the Alumni-Student Center. In our feeling of responsibility for keeping the Center from becoming old before its time and in putti ng the new building to good use we can best th ank the alumni. As we work in this "monument to alumni giving," we should be propelled by the same loyalty to the University which they dem onstrated in constructing the Alumni-Student Center.
-V. P. L.
UNIVERSITY MESSENGER
Shoes and a Broom
(Continued jl'om page 11)
window a feverish shape lay across an iron-posted bed; the gray hair contrasted sharply with the darkness of the figure. Across the room two pairs of shoes side by side before a small sofa . . one pair was brown and white, very big and new .. and the voice that belonged with it was thick and soft like black molasses. The other pair was smaller-not high green alligator pumps-only cracked white flats worn down at the heels . . and the voice belonging with them was sad and sweet like the heavy fragrance of fading magnolias. Both pairs of feet were very young and very still.
A bell shouted that it was closing time. Barbara brushed the trash into a dustpan. The restroom was quickly deserted; she began wiping scattered pow der and hair off the vanities. There was an empty bag on one, bulging with the shape of wha t it had contained. Barbara picked up the bag to throw it away; it was heavy-heavy, she discovered, with-not green-not alligator-but gorgeous calf pumps in a luscious shade of red!
Dark but gay, the room rocked; pairs and pairs of feet beat out the rhythm of brassy jazz and as many pairs of dark-skinned hands clapped light palms together simultaneously. In the center of the dim room flashed a pair of bright red pumps, dancing a wild rhythm with a larger pair of brown and white shoes; and hands clapped and feet stomped and the bright red pumps flashed faster and faster and faster. .
And then somewhere in the crowd there was a pair of low brou n shoes that looked as though they might enjoy walking to the hospital to carry flowers to someone. And the air stopped moving and from somewhere came the sad sweet fragrance of fadi ng magnolias, and a pair of worn white fiats moved very close to a sickbed.
Barbara closed the red slippers up tightly in their bag and tucked them under her arm; she put away her brooms and cleaning rags, shut up the littl e closet they were kept in and left, until the next morning, the second floor ladies' lounge of the Devondale department store.
Her friend, Maggie, worked in Lost and Found. "Hi, Bobbie. Long day, huh? You and Charlie goin' to the Paradise tonight?"
Barbara's shoulders were very tired. She placed the blue bag in the Lost and Found window. OCTOBER, 1951
"Not tonight I guess, Maggie," she smiled. "I don't have-well-Mom's been kinda sick this week."
-P.M.J.
Blue Pearls
(Continued jl'om page 5)
gloves were off, her cool fingers were on my forehead.
"Get me a pill. Top dresser drawer-under the ties."
Kathryn's heels clicked into the bedroom . . . the light switched on . click, click, dick . a piece of glass shattered on the floor. The drawer opened. I heard the rattle of small pills; then -silence. A key slipping into a lock. . .
"Kathryn! Stop it . . . " But my hysteric screams were deadened by the terrible explosion. My head throbbed like death as I reached for the telephone.
"Operator . . . police . I want to report I want to report a fire . . "
-JUNE PAIR.
No.II ..• THE ROOSTER
Youhave to get up early in the morning to put one over on this cock-of-the-walk! When it came to making "quick-trick" experiments of cigarette mildness, he stated flatly, "That's strictly for clucks"! How 'ya going to keep 'em down on the farm-when they know there's one convincing way to prove cigarette mildness! It's the sensible test the 30-day Camel Mildness Test, which simply asks you to try Camels as a steady smoke-on a day after day basis. No snap judgments. Once you've enjoyed Camels for 30 days in your "T-Zone" (T for Throat, T for Taste), you'll see why .••
After all the Mildness tests ..•
''Some of thek ,'' . ff ey. crowingis o .