Editor-in-Chief
Harold D. Gibson
Associate Editor
Lois Reamy
Business Manager
Edward M. Bishop
Art Editor
Macon Moring
Exchange Editor
Edward L. Gibson
Circulation Managers
Sam Nixon
Suzanne Stutts
Editorial Board
Rosalind Allen
Saul Slatoff
Carmen Austin
Typist
Joan Marshall
Contributors
Mary Elizabeth Hix
Margaret Logan
Ann Hunter
Kent Darling
Sylvia Goldstein
"Why shouldn't I do it? What have I got to lose? Sure I'm bound to get caught, but it would be worth it." That was George Hanson speaking. George was forty years old and had been working in the office of the Barnes-Vincent Steamship Repair Corporation for the past twenty years. George had aspirations of becoming a great doctor. He knew of the social standing and prestige that went with the medical profession, not to mention the financial status which would be his as an M.D. He had always thought himself more capable than he actually was, and consequently it was not surprising to those who really knew him when they found out that he was unable to stay in med school because of his poor grades. As a result George's self-confidence suffered a severe jolt, and he gave up all hope of ever becoming anything great. Disillusioned and not knowing exactly what he wanted to do, he finally accepted a job as bookkeeper for a steamship repair company.
While at work George remained mostly to himself and had very little to do with any of his co-workers. Although he wasn't especially liked at the office, his work had been satisfactory and he remained at his job for twenty years. When he took this job, it paid him $3600 a year; today, twenty years later, he is making $4000-a far cry from what he thought, during his college days, he would be making at this time.
It was 11:15 a.m., Saturday, April 5. As he had done for the past ten years, Hansen was making a withdrawal from the Second National Bank. This money was the payroll for employees of the B.-V. S.R.C. This week's payroll was the biggest he had ever remembered-$150.000.
"Here you are, Mr. Hanson, $150,000 in fifteen neat little packages." And then added, laughingly, "Don't lose it!"
Often it had occurred to him how nice it would be to have that much money, but he had dismissed it from his mind. Today though-today it was different.
"Why shouldn't I do it?" he asked himself. "Sure, I'm bound to get caught, but it would be worth it. Yes, I've got to have this money; I've got to get it now!"
He went immediately to a near-by pawn shop and bought a second-hand briefcase, one that resembled the briefcase in which he was then carrying the payroll. He bought a few magazines and papers and put them in this briefcase.
"My next stop," he thought, "the Union National Bank and then to Wright's Drug Store." At the Union National Bank he inquired about renting a safety deposit box.
"A safety deposit box will cost you $3.50 a year," the teller replied. "You give us your signature, which we keep on file, and we then give you a key to your box. Whenever you wish to open the box for anything, you merely present us with your key and your signature which will be compared with the signature on our files. That way if anyone finds your key they won't be able to get in the box because they would also have to supply your signature."
"Very good. I would like to pay rent on it for-," and then he paused for a moment, and thinking to himself, 'better be safe than sorry.' "I'd like to rent it for fifteen years."
"Yes, sir; now if you will just sign here."
"My name," George mused. "What name should I use?" Taking the pen in his hand, he wrote "Jonathan Riley"
"Put these fifteen packages in my box, please."
"Yes, Mr. Riley. Thank you and come back."
Wright's was the biggest and busiest drug store in town and just suited for Hanson's purpose. He went in and ordered a milk-shake and a couple of donuts as he had done so often. He took his time eating and at the same time forcing conversation with the counter-girl whom he had seen frequently but did not know. After he had finished, he got in his car and headed toward the waterfront.
"One more detail to take care of and I'll be through."
Having reached the waterfront, he stopped the car and walked out on the pier. Like a high school athlete throwing a discus, he hurled something out into the water. It was the briefcast which belonged to his employer-the one which he had originally used to carry the weekly payroll; but now it was empty.
George got back to the office around 12:30 p.m.; it had taken a little longer this week to go downtown and get the money. Walking over to the cashier's office, he laid the briefcase on the desk.
"Here you are, Al. A big one today."
"Okay, George, thanks." As George turned and walked away-
"George! George, where's the money?"
"Why," replied George with a puzzled look, "it's in there, in the briefcase."
"No it isn't. This briefcase has nothing but papers and magazines in it."
That night George Hanson was sitting in his room in a downtown boarding house: "They haven't arrested me yet but they're bound to accuse me of stealing the money. They'll prove me guilty on some second degree count, and with the story that I'll give them, I'll get maybe six or eight years in prison. But when I get out-when I get out, every penny of the $150,000 will be waiting right there in the bank for me. Guess I'd better hide this safe deposit box key where I can get to it a few years from now."
Wrapping the key in a handkerchief, he climbed the attic stairs and in a remote corner of the attic he hid the key under a loose board.
On June 9, the case of B.-V. S. R. Corp. v. George Hanson appeared on the court docket. Hanson hired an attorney and put up a good fight declaring all the time that he was innocent of stealing the money. Counsel for the defense, Mr. West, said, "Mr. Hanson, suppose you tell the jury exactly what you did on the morning of April 5, 1946."
"Yes, Mr. West. It was about 11 o'clock on Saturday morning, and I had withdrawn the company payroll from the bank as I had done for ten years. I put the money in the briefcase as I had always done. Before I went back to the office, I stopped in for a bite at Wright's Drug Store. As I
put -my brief~ down on the ~l90r n~t to my stool, !_noticed that there was another brief~ there. It must.have .belonged to the man next.to me. I tJ,iought nothing ~f i' placed it next to his, and ordered what I wanted. When. I finished, there was only one .briefcase there, and I picked it up assuming it was mine. It was so much like ·theone I was carrying that I never noticed the difference. I didn't know it wasn't the right one until I gave it to Mr. Sterling, the cashier, who discovered the error. That's }?.owit happened,I swear!"
The waitress in the drug .store was question~ concerning Hanson's presence in the store. She remembered seeing him 1nthe store many times but couldn't recallwhether he·was in there on that particular day or not. · Hanson haa forced conversation that day in hopes that· she would remember. ·
'rhe trial lasted .seevral hours, but as the jury adJoumed to reach a decision, Hanson knew he hadn't a chance. But this was the fate to which he had resigned himself; this was all in the game. _
An hour-:and-a-half later the jury filed in....:.Oneby one. George faced the jury aµq heard the . decision: guilty, charge: misplacement of company funds. Judge Chambers sentenced him to nine years in prison with time off for good behavior.
Prison life was worse than George . had ever dreamed. At times he wished he had never stolen the money. The years went by slowly but the day finally arirved when. George Hanson was to be freed from prison. He was given $30 and a suit, which the State furnishes to each prisoner who is released. Fifteen dollars of that went into his bus fare back home-home to the attic of the boarding house. He found the house just as he had left it. The landlady was not around so he went in. Taking the steps two at a time, he made his way to the attic.
"Let's see now-that key should be over in this comer. Aha! Here it is all wrapped up just as I left it. Well, beautiful little key, you will open the door to a new life for me. Let's take a ride down to the bank and see what awaits us there, shall we?"
Key in hand, he pushed his way through the doors of the Union National Bank. It looked the same as he remembered
it six ·years ago.· He walked over to the teller's window. This was the first time that he had really begun to feel nervous. Yes, this was it, the moment he had planned and waited f or.
"I would iike to get .a few packages from my box," he rie~oumy as he handed the key to the teller • .
• "All right, sir; sign here." .
"Sign'! Of rourse; I had forgotten." He Ji>ickedup the pen and wrote Jonathan....:_he paused, ''Jonathan what? Wh at ~was .that last name he had used'!
Beadsof perspiration dotted his forehead.
"That name! What the hell was that last name that he had .made up? It began with a 'B', or was it an 'R', or maybe a 'W'! Yes, a 'W'. Was it Wright? No, that wasn't it · Wil•ley? No! No! He was growing frantic. · The 'R'-was it Rawlings? . Rawles? _ That didn't sound right either. Could it have been Bright? What was that damn name!" Over and over in his ·mind he heard: "You'd better hurry up; the man's getting ·suspicious. One hundred-fifty thousand dollars rides on the name. One hundred-fifty thousand dollars-o ne hundred-fifty thousand dollars-think! · think! Six years in prison-TlllNK! Rawlings? Wright? Willey? No! No! No! He couldn't remember it-not for $150,000 could be remember it Think! But it was no use; he couldn't. . Frantically he bolted from the bank and ran wildly down the street. Running, running, he found himself on the nearb y waterfront. Still plagued by the thought of having forgotten his fictitious name, he began to climb the lofty observati on tower over-looking the port.
"That name! Why can't I remember it?" Higher an d higher-"Everything had gone just as I planned. And now this-" Hand over hand he continued to climb . "Six years in prison; six years in that hole for nothing!"
At the top now, some 200 feet in the air, he paused an d looked down. Crazed and in utter despair, he screamed, "Th at name-I can't stand it!" He leaped. Falling through the ai r, he relived his college days, and now he saw the day he .put the company payroll in the safety deposit box and signed th e name-the name of one Jonathan Riley. Riley! That was th e name; that was it! It was Riley! SPLASH. -Jack O'dell, '57
.At night I walk where the wind .blow8 free .And the moon is a haunted dream, To gather thoughts from the temple o'ld
On the misty isle of Jean. • •·
in t1w heart of a fiery soul
There oncelived -the fate of man, And wereit not for love of fe,ar .AUstill might know that land.
The uind WCl8 a dream that moved the eye
Adorned with t1w might of good,
Filled with valleys deep and green
Where a golden temple stood.
When I enterea free and found that Truth Was the foremost thought of loveI saw it descend from clouds on high
While moonbeams sang deep above.
But fear came l>y and my sO'Ultook flight
As I mockea the acene beheld-
Killing the noblest gift men own (Which took Fate eons to bui'ld.)
The dark clouds came with the ceaselessrain
And the worul. was seen no more, Now all that's left is a misty isle
And the dirge of a breaker's roar!
When the days are clear I think I see
The glow from the temple oul..
But the wind breathes dark on love so dim
And a soul that's grown so coul..
But at night I wal,k where the wind blows free
And the moon is a hauntea dream, To gather thoo,ghts from the temple old
On the misty isle of Jean.
-John James Westbrook, m
A .Reviewof the Content.aof the First Messenger ' ..
"It is our purpose w tl,lis pa~ medium of com• mwlication between the .stude{lts and friends of the .College, among which latter we cowit the alumni and all other old stu• dents, and all who are interested in the welfare of the young men now attending the Institution."· In these words the edi· tor of the first issue of'MimthJy M~,igs, the· direct ancestor of. the present Messenger,·stated the purpose of that magazine. Volume I, No. 1 of Musings was published in January of 1876.
What were the contents of those early magazines like? They usually began with a quotation from some poem, which was followed by a column headed "Literary." The first "Literary" column contained an essay on "The Elizabethan Era" signed "Hope."
On page two of No. 1, is anarticle and a poementitled "The New Year." Another article on page two is entitled "Virginia." It begins: "At the head of the grand old South, great in resources despite recent exhaustion, rising grad• ually but proudly out of her ashes, stands Virginia. Her posi• tion is peculiarly gratifying to every one of her true-bOm sons." After several paragraphs of eulogistic matter, the writer, who signs himself "Phi," remarks that "Virginia can· not content herself with past greatness ... She has suffered but her spirit is unsubdued. . . . Resolution and effort are all that are needed to raise her to her proper place, the .pride of the Republic and the joy of the South. Let her young men go forward." He concludes: "The unequalled brilliancy of a glorious past cries out against allowing the strain of neglect to blot the fair excutcheon so long untarnished, and unites with the glowing prospects of a successful future in inviting Virginia to keep pure a reputation so deservedly enviable."
Concluding page two is a half column of "Personals," among which are the following: "C. E. Nicol is practising law at Brentsville, Va. Of course, he is doing well." "Rev. J. E. L. Holmes is pastor of the Baptist Church at Danville. His winning manners and sterling worth have made him de•
servedly popular." "Rev. W. W. Wood is preaching very accept.ablyin Middlesex Co., Va. He dined with the 'mess' a few days since and did full .justice to the excellent dinner which had been provided.". '(When I at first saw the word "mess," I thought the forerunner of the present refectory was being described, however, the description of the meal eliminates that possibility.)
On page three of Musings, there is a column on "Science and Ari" featuring an article called "Early Christian Art" by Edward V. Valentine, the famous Richmond sculptor. At the conclusion of this article there are several notes on news of interest in the scientific .world, among which is the notice that a Mr. T. A. Edison of Newark, N. J., "an electrician of somenote, claims to have discovered a new kind of electricity . . . . Our opinion on the subject is-reserved." Page three concludes with a column of "words of wisdom"-type quotes on such subjects as "My Mother," "Hope," and "Frankness in Love." The column is entitled "Casket of Gems.''
Page four cont.ains the editorial quoted in part at the beginning of this article, a couple of poems, and a description of the "first ·regular meeting of the Stockholders of the Monthly Musings Publishing Company."
Page five of Monthly Musings, No. 1, begins with a column of "Locals." Among these will be found "College News, General·Success of the various classes . . . witty jokes, Pleasant repartees," and " a careful st.atement of the Students' health."
A letter to the Editor tells of a recent religious revival at the College under the leadership of Dr. Wm. E. Hatcher, then pastor of the Grace Street Baptist Church. The meeting lasted a week and two days. "When it began, there were twenty-eight young men residing at the College, who were not professors of religion, and some there were, who had gone far back into sin. Now, there are only five who have not been converted, and two of these are asking the way of life." After one meeting had ended the students adjourned to a large private room "and there they sang, talked and prayed together until nearly midnight. 0, how sweet and awful was the place." (The writer probably meant awful in the sense of filled with awe.) ·
(Concluded on Page 18) 9
J ohn Cameron had always been infatuated with the ironical, al though he would deny , if confronted by it, that his cool, detach ed approach to life could involve anything as sensual as an infatuation. A person more mature could be saddened and a little amused at the smile which just missed being cynical as he watched the human comedy around him-but the amusement would die quickly when the observer realized that he was included in the smile too.
H e had few friends, prefering to select them carefully , just as he bought a few good Harris tweed sportscoats, or a few a lmost-rare books. When he arrived on the Princeton campus , an impressionable freshman, he learned almost immediately the value of the slightly raised eyebrow-it was easy, he found, to disdain the amateur who tried to substitute quanti ty for discernment in this game.
The roommate Princeton assigned to him became a superb dramatic contrast for his perfection. The two were so dissimilar that their seemingly accidental linking could only have been the fulfillment of perfect design. The only thing that Robert Townsend Brooks, m had been endowed with by his illustrious ancestors with his bank account. Fat, entirely too good-natured for Princeton, tactless, unimaginative, untidy, John tossed him off to one of his new intimates by saying "Bobby's the type that makes what's left of the Family run out and mate with some fresh immigrant blood----afraid to ri sk another geneological error!' It amused John that the room divided itself into two obvious halves-on one side the Precious, the perfect, on the other the chaotic confusion of indiscriminately assembled possessions. And it also amused him to ·see that Bobby-he could not manage 'Bob' in spite of repeated requests to do so-never looked as well as he. They could shop in the same stores, wear the same labels, and the effect would be amazingly different.
It was the same thing with women. John hadn't really started to have dates down until he was well-established on campus. He had allowed himself a well-spent two years of observing other people's dates, dancing with them, fixing them drinks. He never bothered with the prom-trotters, the professional weekenders-they were treated very successfully with supreme irony. Even John would have been surprised b)! the number of times he came into powder-room conversation, surprised at the air of mystery he had unconsciously and, for him, effortlessly attained. He met a long line of debutantes through his roommate's Park Avenue connections, but when they tried to be democratic about his middle-classness as they knew all twentieth century broadminded debutantes should be, they were prevented. He simply wouldn't let them. And the only conclusion they could come to about John Cameron was that he certainly was egnimatic.
By the Junior year, armed with this aura of intrigue and a membership in an entirely respectable club, John was able to slide into the general social picture of the college weekend plus date. He was usually a little late meeting women at the station, but after that his behavior was impeccable, matching perfectly his well-chosen date. He had no patience with the security which comes when variety is sacrificed-when his roommate confided to him that he thought "this was really it, this time" he smiled faintly and asked if it "felt good, hav• ing all that social security." And so there was always a new face, a new girl who was, in some way, quite unique. She could always be described with superlatives, and the adjectives would not be attached to the same characteristic two week• ends in a row.
He had forgotton his roommate's confession of love when he ·burst into their room one day, his round face shiningly damp, all but waving a letter he had in his hand. "John, boy, (John hated this fraternalism) she's coming-actually coming! Her mother's finally said she could come, and damn if the old hen isn't letting her come to Houseparties!" He dis· played the letter between John's nose and his volume of Gide, spun around the room and finally fell into a chair, pantingly offending his roommate's sensibilities.
"For God's sake, Bo (this was the latest and most satisfactory corruption) woot is all the noise about-and you used 'come' four times in three seconds."
"I don't give a danm what I used! Mary Jane's coming, coming, coming-"
"Bo, if you can't express yourself without SOWlding like an Eddie Fisher record, it might be best to preserve silence." He would have liked to remark on the rather pastoral quality of the girl's name-it had occurred to him by now who she must be-but he wouldn't bother. In fact, he had often wondered why he bothered with Bo at all-he explained it to his few close friends with beautiful irony, calling it "noblesse oblige." John rather enjoyed being superior about Family, especially because he didn't have one and had succeeded so admirably alone . .
Glancing up from his Gide, he was startled by his roommate's behavior, which implied that this Mary Jane thing was of quite tremendous importance. There was the smallest sigh of rebellion there, an unwillingness to be the fat boy, the awkward boy, any longer. .And so John contended himself with expressing his amusement with only a suggestion of a lifted eyebrow. Besides, he had problems of his own-the only girl who would possibly do for Houseparties had been suddenly afflicted with appendicitis. But it wasn't important-he would be dramatically and attractively stag. Thinking about it, the idea appealed even more than having the perfect Houseparty date. He had heard a senior say at the table the other day that it was passible to exist on other weekends without a woman, but for Houseparties it was absolutely essential. John would be unconventional-it was definitely appealing.
"John ... " tentatively, asking-good!
"Yes, Bo," faint expression of annoyance at being disturbed from Gide.
"Look, John, since you aren't having a date down, could you-well, sort of look after MaryJane some? She doesn't ~ow anyone here-her mother's got her shut up in that damn prep school-and, well, the weekend's kind of important to me ... " He stopped, embarrassed .
John's "Sure, Bo, sure" was condescendingly soothing, making it entirely proper to add ''andrn drink your Scotch,
too." This last was always dangerous territory-he never wanted to be in the poor relation category. Ii wouldn't do at all for Bo to be able to assert financial superiority. But here he was safe-it was a huge favor Bo was asking-a prep school girl! He wondered if she had braces on her teeth. The expected outburst of gratitude from his roommate was gracefully ignored as he sought refuge behind his book-one of Bo's more obvious faults was his gushing. It became more maddening when John imagined himself the possessor of the bank account and what he could do with it.
He avoided his room during the few days before the weekend while Bo spent a large part of his time getting things in order. He told John his plans, a little nervously-instead of going over to the club right away they'd come here first for a drink, and John's presence as bartender and good cheer man was hesitantly requested. John said he would be thereit would save possible embarrassment at the club if he had the situation analyzed in privacy. And besides, he was curious to see the person who could activate his phlegmatic and untidy roommate to polish the ashtrays with a freshly-laundered shirt, the only piece of cloth he could find in his excitement. Afterwards, he thought it had been terribly unfair. Unfair of Bo not to tell him that Mary Jane had toured Europe for three years (that was why she was still in prep school), that she had a completely fascinating chin, and that her eyes had adopted a sea blue from her winters on the Riviera. If he had been forewarned, he would have realized that it is not correct to be amusing about a request for straight Scotch with a water chaser-not when the request comes from someone whose life has been almost destroyed by a careless father before a strict mother obtained custody. He would have been spared a look of pasionless contempt-the first of a series. No, it hadn't been at all fair, but w h en it was all over he couldn't appear interested enough to complain. If he had, Bo would have said quite correctly that John had not shown enough interest to ask, and this was his punishment. They went over to dinner at .the club and John began to feel that he was regaining control of the situation. His roommate was content to watch the conversation between the two develop, enjoying its brittle, light cleverness. By the end of
the meal John, his ego restored, wondered at Bo's naivetehe himself would hardly have invited temptation in a form which he compared poorly - with. And when they moved into the living room and people wanted to be introduced to Mary Jane, he felt as if she were his date-more buoyant than he had in weeks.
The next day passed in the usual new-summer way of Princeton Houseparties. There were the blankets on the lawns, the elaborately original containers for purple or yellow gin concoctions, the cigarette smoke carried away by a breeze that was not cool-the kind of bree-ze which reminds underclassmen that they must decide what their summer plans are. This - was what the senior had been talking about at the table -th e long, lazy afternoon, passing with no more urgency than the-anticipation of another one tomorrow, demanded female company. Always between the two, pervading them, was the delightfully insistent speculation of how much could be done with the sustained intimacy of Houseparty atmosphere .
John did not allow himself to mourn his single state-it could be as profitable to be the interesting extra man, the relief to a girl who found her blind date worse than she had imagined. And eventually, of course, he wandered over to Mary Jane and Bo-she called him 'Robert' with a slight British accent.
It was the first time he had seen her that day, and he was pleased by the way she looked in her bennuda shortsthey usually made women look so horsy. But then Mary Jane was an unusual person from any viewpoint-he had been realizing that ever since their conversation over the dinner table the night before.
Her "Oh, hullo there" seemed exactly perfect and John, answering the greeting with practically the same inflection wondered again what she was doing spending her time with his roommate. Because it had become quite obvious that she thought far more of him than John could have imagined. Could there be some hidden trait, some attractiveness there tha t John, after almost three years of living with him, hadn't seen? Looking at him, hot and faintly perspiring in a wrinkled shirt with grass stains on the sleeve, he was sure he hadn't missed anything. He would have to talk to Mary Jane alone,
and get the· answer. He was sure of one thing-it wasn't money. ·You don't kick around Europe for three years and cultivate a taste for fine wines on credit. If it had been money. You don't kick around Europe for three years and more or less. But it wasn't and he respected the mystery for its complexity.
He was impatient, waiting for a chance to be alone with her. And finally his roommate heaved himself to his feet, mumbled something about nature, and ambled off with the slowness of the pleasantly intoxicated. John watched him go, ·watched him greet all his friends-he was always so exhuberant!-and realized he might have ten minutes at the most to talk. He would have prefered to wait until there was more time, until it was dark, but there might not be another chance. Besides, there was more than just satisfaction of curiosity involved-he needed as much time as he could get Casually, then, "Having a good time sharing in the vernal joys of all redblooded Princeton Men?"
She turned the astonishing chin in his direction. "I haven't been paying too much attention. You see, I don't see Robert very often, and when we get a chance, there's so much to talk about."
He looked at her closely, watching for sarcasm. But the remark was made gently, sincerely-he could hardly believe it.
"You and Bo are pretty serious, aren't you?" He hated the clumsiness, the tone of incredulous accusation. If she was being the martyr, taking on the sick man, that would increase her resistence to him. John was not used to resistence. She looked at him briefly, wonderingly. "I thought you knew. - We're going to be married this Christmas." Seeing his expression, she added quickly, "Oh, Robert did say something about anonuncing it tonight at the dance and surprising people. I didn't realize you were to be surprised too. Don't _ tell him-it'll spoil it for him."
He had nothing to say. He wanted to argue with her, to tell her she was too good for him. Defensively, he wondered if she really was. Any girl who'd voluntarily spend the rest of her life with Bo! . • . she couldn't be worth much; could she? And then. he remem~red that no one had ever loved him. Women thought he was interesting, but they didn't love
him. He felt as if he were seeing something private, something as she began to tell him of her plans, her eyes bright above the chin he· wouldn't forget. She wasn't sophisticated now, she was like a charming little girl on Christmas Eve. He was in the way, an intruder,. someone to announce happiness to until the creator of the happiness returned. His roommate would be back soon-he had only a- few. minutes to salvage what was left of his importance with a perfect parting remark. He sat there in t~e leafy afternoon.sunlight and trying to decide what to say .. He didn't realize until much later, when the last vestige of young idealism had been washed away by ~iv~ years in an advertising agency, . that this was perfect, complete irony. In a sense, it was the end of his life -the perfect remark had been said for him.
-Margaret Logan,·'57.
My silence screams for you, rabbit, For you who have no voice to 'JlTOtest The shrinking crimson of your death, And minute 'by minute are ground out of being.
I must stap for a moment now
To drink deep of your dying
And drain my sullen f-Mrydry, As you are dry:
I look at you long and lovingly, For soon I shall think of other things, And I shall forget That you are nothing.
-Ann Hunter,
'57
He walks proudl,y
-Our village hangman with his bloodred cape. The wind from gallows-hill is strong tonight. The oape catches briefly on his long-hanging beard
Y.our 'beard is 'beautiful, HangmanFinely,-0'/ack, movinggraciously
In the wind from gallcws-hill ...
-Moving graciou..sly like the hanging highwayman. The little girl in the yellow dress Streams as you, pass stridingly Massively b'loodred and b"/ack P1'0tlilly~ a],roaysalone.
-Margaret Logan, '57
(Continued from Page 9)
Concluding page five is a notice saying: "Patronize those who patronize us-Students are earnestly requested to patron• ize those wl)o advertise in our paper, as they are all reliable men, and will sell as cheap as the cheapest."
Page six of Musings features a column of "Reviews" with the subtitles, "Our Work" and "The Reviews Reviewed." On Page seven is another column of "Locals" and several advertisements. Among these is a barber shop for those who wish to have their "Whiskers changed to a most beautiful black or brown color."
The Messenger has changed much in the past eighty years.
-Saul Slatoff, '58 18
$ecollclPrize.~. P. D. L $hort Story Contest
Jo hn pulled the kjtchen door slowly until it clicked, hardly making any noise at all. The last time he had come outside he had slammed it and his mother had told him he was $Upposed to be -Quiet. He stepped down from the top step, and the next one wiggled just a little . .John stood there and looked out around him. Three scrawny white chickens were pecking at the sand at the bottom of the steps- the others were all over .the sandy yard, pecking sand and cackling chicken talk so low John could hardly hear it. He thought maybe they were whispering about what had happened. John picked up a rock from the top step and looked at it. ..Bet they'd squawk if I thre w that at 'em," he thought. He raised back his arm and the n he stopped. Maybe somebody had told them to be quiet, j ust like his mother had told him. The chickens were just like the people inside, he thought, getting together in bunches- whispering and eating-that was all .
Jo hn pushed his tie up tight to his neck, the way his father always did. He had on his new suit-it was the first time h e had ever worn a suit on Tuesday. He reached up to feel if his •hair was still combed. Then John remembered that today was his birthday. He was nine years old Yesterday, he had been at home, watching his mother make his birthday cake-s he promised him it would be the best one she ever made, because it was for his birthday . He had been licking the last of the batter from the bowl when the telephone rang . His mother didn't say much, but John knew something was wrong. Just before she hung up, he heard her say , "I've just baked a cake. It's John's birthday, you know . We'll bring it with us. " John saw her start to cry then, when she had hung up the phone. She wiped her eyes with the hem of her apron and crune back in the kitchen. At first she looked at John Then she was coming over toward him, and her hands were on his shoulders . "John," she said, "you know, your uncle-your Uncle John-,-the you're named for-the one with the birthd ay -the same as your-tomorrow, it ' s supposed to be-he died, John-just a little while ago, ·down home . We 'll have
to go, John, and take the cake, the special one for your birth, day-that's all right, isn't it, son~he was my brother." John swallowed hard, and he still had some of the sweet taste from the cake batter. He thought about his birthday and the party tomorrow afternoon and the cake, the best cake his mother had ever .made. Then he saw she was -going to cry again-he didn't like to see his mother cry-so he said it was·all right to take the cake and was he going to go to Uncle John's too, and was Daddy going to go? He thought it had always been .fun to go to Uncle John's-Uncle John had chickens and pigs and a ·bright red tractor that he let John ride on the last time he was there---when he was six. Daddy had come home •-then, in the middle of the day, home from the office, and John ran up to him and asked if he knew they were going to Uncle John 's? Daddy didn't laugh the way he always did or shake John's hand real hard or ask him if he had cartjed out the trash-:he just said they had to hurry and get ready to leave and it wasn't going to be a visit for fun and John would have to promise to be good. John had promised. All the way down to Uncle John's Daddy kept reminding him to be quiet. He sat in the front seat-in the middle--between his mother and daddy. One time he asked if they were going to have his birthday down at Uncle John's and his daddy said sh-h-h, and his mother didn't answer. The cake was in the back on the seat-he knew it was the cake, even though his mother had put it in one of her hat boxes. When they stopped for dinner, John wanted to get chicken, but Daddy said it would take too long-they would have to eat a sandwich and go on. Once in the car John started to tum the radio on and then he thought they wouldn't want him to, so he didn't try. John thought this wasn't like going to Uncle John's when he was six. After dinner when they got back in the car, John was tired, and hts mother told him to put his head in her lap so he did. His mother talked to his father then, but he couldn't understand what they were saying. When his mother woke him up, it was dark. She said they were almost at Uncle John's, so he started looking out the window to see if he saw anything he knew. They tumed off the highway then, and the car started to bump up and down, and finally jerked to a stop right in front of the house.
There were some other cars there too. John looked up at the house and then he remembered-the long front porch with t he swing at each end, the screen door that wouldn't quite shut . The front door was open and the lights were all on and J ohn could tell that there were some people inside. His mother and daddy were getting out of the car then, so John got out t oo. His daddy got the suitcases and gave John the hat box with his birthday cake to carry inside. When they got to the porch, John thought all the people were leaving-they started coming out and hugging his mother and shaking hands with his daddy and one fat woman with gray hair kissed him, and he didn't know what to do. Then she said, "You don't remember me, do you, John? I'm your Aunt Susan." She smiled at him, and John saw her eyes were red like his mother's had been, and then he thought maybe he remembered her. All the people went back inside, and John and his mother and daddy went in with them. A man whose name was Uncle Jack said he would take John upstairs to bed, and John's daddy said that would be fine and his mother put her arms around him and kissed him, and then he went upstairs. He turned around t o look back then and saw some of the people were eating cake, and he wondered what kind of party it was tonight. Uncle Jack was nice and showed him where to put his clothes and when John was in bed he told him his mother and daddy would be up in a little while, and then he left him. That was last night, and John wondered if it would be like that again tonight.
John picked up a stick and started drawing pictures in the sand. He heard his mother at the door say, "John, it's t ime for lunch now--come in and wash your hands." When he got in the dining room, someone told him to sit on the r ed kitchen stool at one corner of the table-he was next to two girls-they had told him that morning they were his cousins, Peggy and Jane, but they were older than he was and h ad on heels and lipstick and they were sniffling-John sat down by them and didn't say anything. They were passing t he plates, and he thought his would never come. He thought it looked almost like Christmas dinner with all the food-he had a big drumstick and some ham and butter beans and tw o rolls. His mother was sittin g across from him, and
she smiled at him when he looked over at her. But she was talking to Uncle Jack. Everybody was talking and eatingonce someone asked him if he wanted anything else to eat. There were so many people at the table-people he didn't know. He was sure he had never seen most of them before. It wasn't so quiet now-some of them began laughing. All of a sudden he looked up and saw his cake. It was all cut in big slices, and they began passing it around the table. Somebody said, "Oh, this is the cake Frances made--your cakes are always the very best, Frances-this looks delicious." It seemed funny to hear them call his mother Frances. He watched the cake go around, and then he thought there was not so much after all. There were a lot more people before it would get to him. Then he saw just three pieces were left-Aunt Susan took a piece, and then it got to Peggy and Jane. They started to split one, but then Aunt Susan said there were lots of other cakes, so they each took a piece. John saw then that the plate was empty-his cake was all gone. He looked down at his empty plate and bit his lip. Aunt Susan saw that he hadn't gotten any cake; she told Miss Martha to cut the cocoanut one so John could have a piece. He didn't want cocoanut cake, he wanted his birthday cake-but somebody put a piece on his plate before he could say anything. His birthday cake was all gone-the cake his mother had made, the best one of all. John sat on the red stool and tried to eat the cake, but he couldn't. He picked at it with his for and bit his lip hard so he wouldn't cry. Nobody was noticing him-they were all eating his cake. He just sat very still and finally they finished eating and began to clear the table. John got up then and didn't say anything to anyone. His mother was helping to carry the dishes back to the kitchen. His dad was talking to Uncle Jack.
John went out in the hall and stopped outside the door that was closed. His daddy had told him that morning he couldn't go in there. His daddy and mother and some of the others had gone in, but he had to wait outside. He thought about his birthday cake again and that today was his birth· day, and he wanted to cry, but he was nine years old now, and he couldn't cry. He thought then that he wanted to get
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It is usually the custom in the final issue of the year to say something to this effect: Ahhhhhhhh-What Glorious Years These Have Been; the Opportunities For Lifelong Service to Mankind Are Open to Us; We are Now the Product of Cloistered Halls and the Scholarship of the Ages. What rot! We are living in a world of reality and in such a world we must face facts. Everything it not rose-tinted nor gardenia-scented. There is war, deceit, strife, and disillusionment at every corner. At the risk of getting sentimental beyond the definition of sentimentality, I would like to analyze our four years at this University and ask a sincere question : What has the University contributed to our personalities, our intere sts, and our attitudes?
American higher education has now reached the point of near assembly-line production. The freshman, a piece of purely raw material, is ushered through three days of orientation, "to acquaint him with the rules and policies of the school"; he is given a list of "suggested courses" at matriculation (a word whose definition he hardly knows upon graduation) ; another such suggestive list guides his reading in his first encounter with English literature; every hour of any particular course is directed as a means toward an end (final grade), rather than being an end in itself; he is preserved and sheltered from the "harsh" facts of human existence; his clothes reflect the prevailing styles, since he is an outcast if he doesn't wear the accepted ensemble. All of which leads to the inescapable conclusion that conformity is a weak word to use in characterizing his first two years in college.
Eventually he reaches the glorious junior and senior years . Matriculation again seems to be a rather stilted affair; he h as been promised an individual "selection" of electives , but after he signs for the required courses in his major field, he h as few hours left from which to select; the sheltering Process continues and any glimmer of awakening he might
have is effectively crushed; the assembly line process is emerging more clearly; one professor shapes his thinking, another molds his attitudes, and still another inspects the work of the others; after a swift and bewildering dash through t he senior year, he is given a final O.K.
The horror of horrors is suddenly upon him: He is faced with the world! Perhaps a more adequate statement wou ld be: The world is faced with him. He knows nothing of t he struggles he will meet, and most lamentable of all, he ha s little with which to overcome them. In many instances, h e takes one look and dives back into the sheltering waters of "Knowledge." On rare occasions, he is man enough to m eet the world squarely and fight for all he is worth, not with a ll his powers, for some have been adequately stifled, but with a zest not completely blotted out by the opaque fog of uni versity life.
Resist the conformity of such an education. Do not gulli bly believe everything heard, read, or seen, but be an individu al, one who uses his intellectual powers to find the truths of life The University needs not average men, but men who are superior in their individual thinking, their individual persona lities, and their individual loyalty. If four years at this Unive rsity can do that for us, the years will not have been in vai n. The simple equation, two plus two equals four, can only be valid if the totaling is our own. For some, two plus two will never equal four.
-H.D.G.
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outside and get away from all these people. He had to go through the kitchen, so he went quick and bumped into Miss Martha but he didn't say excuse me or anything-he j ust wanted to get to the back door and outside. He shut the door tight so he couldn't hear what was going on inside. Then John looked at the scrawny white chickens aga in . They were cackling louder now and pecking up the bits of food that had been thrown out to them . John picked up a rock and threw it right in the middle of them-they began to squawk and jump around like crazy. John just looked a t them for a minute, and then he sat down on the bottom st ep with his head down on his knees. He started crying.
-Rosalind Allen, '57
