"What is so rare as a day in June," When birds and bees and 'shine and flowers, All while away the happy hours, 'nd the Universe seems all in tune.
The silver-helmeted daisy hosts Are marshalled , winged in battle array, To meet, like Persians o' Grecian day, Gold-crested buttercup's vain boasts.
And long the cool, sequestered lane, Where sun rays sport the fickle leaves In playful dodge with th' summer breeze,A mottled, kaleidoscopic screen,
Like the glimmering smile on a baby's face, An innocent glint and spirituelle From pure and fragrant immortelle Of the aery, faery realms of space,
I meet inhabitants of earth, All happy, ecstatic creature kind With work and care flung to the wind, All given up to blissful mirth.
Ah, what so rare as a day in June, Save a maiden's heart and love-lit eye, Or welling, half-husht, tender sigh; For harp her heart and love the tune.
The Phantom Heart
C. L. Stillwell, 'II.
I, Waldo Zerendof, am alone--alone and friendless, save for the presence of one who brings terror to my heart. Already I feel the hand of death creep upon me; already a chill strikes my spine, and I know that life is slowly ebbing away. For nights I have lain fighting with the Demon Despair; for nights I have heard the shrill wind whistle through the tree-tops on this lonely isle, and go creeping off to the seashore to blend with the moan of the waves.
I took my bride to the little town of Utrina, far up on the Sannobargo Mountains, beside the silver Lake Vintergan. We were happy. For many months we were lotus-eaters. We loved-truly lov ed-and we were happy.
Nature was almost perfect. Nowhere, it seemed, did the moon shine with such splendor as on the summits of the Sannobargo Mountains. One August night during the first year of our married life, we sat in a honey-suckled arbor, and watched the waves leap against the rays of moonlight and break off their oblique descent in a glitter like that of a diamond.
"How I love this lake," she murmured. "I wish the moon would never move and we could remain in this spell."
"We are happy, whether the moon roams over the heavens or whether the sun gilds our lake .''
"You are right. But - sing me that song your father loved so well "
I sang her an old, sad melody, accompanied by her violin . ,; We must leave this spot," she suggested, when I had finished. "We must go in."
I persuaded her to remain. She did not see what I saw-a shadow on the lake which I had ne v er seen before--at least in this world---though I felt that long ages before, somewhere in the dim calendars of d eparted time, I had known such a shadow. It seemed only a faint suggestion, and I told Lena
RICHMOND COLLEGE MESSENGER 411
nothing of it. Possibly, if I had, I should not have had to make this confession. As I looked, the shadow struck a note of weirdness through my soul, and I could not speak. From it grew a maiden, lovely and enchanting. She raised her hand and coming dose to me, drew it softly across the strings of Lena's violin. I can never forget the effect upon the instrument; never, though I should outlive eternity. I seemed to be transported to a half-remembered moment in the world's beginning.
"Listen!" I cried in agonized despair, "for God's sake, Lena, listen!.,
"I hear nothing," was her reply, "but the whisper of the waves, and the sigh of the winds in the tree-tops. We must go in."
Was I insane? Certainly, as I look back upon my subsequent actions, it seems that I bordered on insanity. I began to write a poem, and at the same time I grew to care less for Lena. I would slip quietly from the house in the evening, and go to th~ arbor where we had formerly sat together. If she came upon me in my reveries, I would scowl upon her and bid her leave me alone. As I think of the timid creature walking silently back into the house, a thousand pangs of remorse seize me. Could I have known, the world would never have been burdened with this story of a crime.
Lena pined and drooped, and I left'her for days and nights at a time. I would get into my little canoe, and floating quietly on the lake, I would snatch a few hours sleep under the open sky. Years passed thus and the beauty of Lena's face had given way to a pallid, care-worn expression. I hated her!
I had been continually occupied on my poem, the heroine of which was the shadow that had risen from the lake and drawn her fingers across the strings of Lena's violin. I had given almost my life's blood in my endeavor to portray her as I saw her. I had become a skeleton of my former self. But I cared nothing for my physical condition. I felt that I had succeeded in my attempt. And I had grown to love this child of my brain more, far, far more deeply than I had ever loved Lena! It was for her, the unattainable, that I strove to live.
412 RICHMOND COLLEGE MESSENGER
I would quote the poem at intervals to my wife, who was ill. She grew weaker. Finally, as the last words of the poem left my lips, the light faded from her eyes and her life was gone. Instantly, the poem faded from my memory, never to be recalled. I heard nothing, and saw only the spirit of my dead · wife, calmly ascending. It paused; something fluttered downward into my hand. The spirit was gone. In my palm, was a missive, sealed with a bleeding heart which bore the single letter, "L."
I heard a weird rustle; I felt a breath of air fan my cheeks-a breath which seemed to bring strange forebodings. An arm reached over my shoulder and touched the seal. Instantly, the missive flew open and I read: I, the spirit of thy maiden of the Lake, and the Child of thy brain, am the spirit of thy wife, Lena."
The arm withdrew, the breath of air ceased, and slowly, silently, the missive left my hand and disappeared through the roof of the cottage.
La Belle Dame
By Eudora Woolfolk Ramsay, 'II.
DOUGLAS pressed his face against the cool pane until his nose and little round cheeks mashed flat. Great brown eyes peered through snowflakes across the Battery. There was no sign of life, not a street vender on the pavement below, not a sail on the muddy Cooper. This was the first snow storm and, in spite of their infrequent occurrence, the usual crowd of snow-ballers did not throng the street, for the flakes melted in the puddles on the sidewalk. Douglas was very unhappy, for Annette, his maid, was cross, his father was out, and they had sold his dog the day before. He drew his mouth down until it formed a pitiful bow and tears were tracing a path across his cheeks. Finally, a chubby hand brushed his face and a little form stood very straight.
"I'm not going to cry," he muttered manfully, and louder" Annette, won't you tell me a story?"
"Ah, no, Annette is busy. Iss eet zat Annette should tell stories all ze time? Play but stop to worry poor Annette. Does he not hear? Stop!"
Again his little mouth drew <low~ at the corners and again Douglas dashed away a very annoying tear.
"Annette is a mean girl and won't go to heaven," he ?aid to himself and added resignedly, "I guess I'll have to tell myself a story but .I can't talk out loud for, Annette will tell me that I am talking to the Bad Man. I know she wouldn't like Annette, who doesn't know a thing, to call her the Bad Man.
So Douglas settled himself in the Morris chair before the fire, and soon forgot Annette, his father, the departure of the dog; in fact the world vanished before the lady of his dreams. She was everywhere, filling the soul of the child with the shadow of that unspeakable love that had never come into his barren little life. Douglas had never known a mother, had never nestled close in a woman's arms, had never felt the sympathetic pressure of a mother's hand, nor the warm touch of a mother's lips. So
RICHMOND COLLEGE MESSENGER
he had created for himself a beautiful, large-souled woman, who came and went at his call, who had never failed to comfort the boy when he most needed sympathy. For the child, she lived as truly as did his father and Annette. She was part of himself. part of the air he breathed, of the life he lived, too sacred a being to be profaned by the unappreciative tongue of Annette. Yet in the midst of his revery, while Douglas watched the flames leap up the great chimney, Annette was calling.
"Monsieur Douglas will not have supper tonight wis hes papa. It iss ze time for Monsieur to wash his hands and it iss not ze sing for him to dream. Depeche tu, Monsieur, depeche tu." Annette waits.
It was always that way, Douglas thought mournfully. Annette could never understand, so, with a thud, he came back to reality, ate supper and let himself be undressed. His silence perplexed Annette, and she was deciding to tell him her most thrilling story when Douglas said firmly:
"Annette, good night. She will put me to bed and I will say my prayers to her tonight."
The girl's eyes grew large as they searched the face of the child.
"Oui, Annette will indeed go if you talk of your Belle dame. It iss not right. One will sink zat Monsieur Douglas iss not a good boy. It iss too wunderful and Annette iss displeased and will not gif her good-night kiss.
Her face was troubled as she softly closed the nursery door and listened to assure herself that the boy was safely in bed. She heard him murmur softly, "La Belle Dame, good-night. Yes, Douglas will be a good boy and dream of you." Then she crept into the next room and drawing a chair near the fire, sat down to think.
It was after twelve when Douglas Hayward, Senior, let himself in the front door of his home. The campaign had been a bitter one, and, although South Carolina at large was laying aside its jealousy for the little seaport town in the election of Hayward for senator, the fight was desperate. However, the struggle at last was at an end, and on the morrow the polls would tell their story. It was over-and the candidate who
RICHMOND COLLEGE MESSENGER 415
had swayed the multitudes all day was weary and longed for the rest that sleep can not bring to a fevered and active brain. He thought of Douglas, of the little face among the snowwhite pillows, of the cool blue of the nursery, and softly mounted the stairs. The fading glow from the hearth reflected its tints in golden curls and one hand was entangled in the shining mass. A sleeping child! Care, fatigue, fell as veils unheeded from the face of the man as he gazed upon the one being that was his, his to love , his to protect. Douglas stirred, he was dreaming.
"Yes, the fairies are pretty," he said indistinct! y. "But not like you, La Belle Dame. The big witch is coming, but you'll take car e of me? "
Douglas opened his eyes for a moment, looked into his father's face, and closed them again.
"Do you want to play with us, father?" he asked. "The beautiful lady will let you if you are good."
"If I am good!" the man repeated, "if I am good! I wonder if I am! Yes, little boy, father wants to play with your lady and you."
The child starting, sat up in bed, dazed. Recognizing his father, he smiled and lifted his face to be kissed. Strong arms gathered him close and carried him to the Morris chair. Douglas gave a contented little sigh and nestled closer.
"Tell me about your beautiful lady, Douglas. Who is she? ;, "Oh, she's just mine," was the prompt answer. "Annette won ' t let me talk about her so I just have to think-and I think so much! She's so good to me. I reckon my mother was like her. Tell me about my mother . Did you love her?"
Mr. Hayward's face grew serious. "Yes, Douglas, I loved her more than I ever loved anyone else. She was beautiful and good, too good for us, too good for me, so God took her away. Her eyes were brown and soft like yours, and her hair was black and thick. You would have loved her, Douglas, and she-she would have loved you."
"No, father, I would not have loved her. She's not like La Belle Dame. Annette's hair is black and I hate black hair. Her hair is light and her eyes are like-like the paper on the wall. I love her and you most of anybody.
416 RICHMOND COLLEGE MESSENGER
"Why, you've never seen her, child. You can't love someone , you've never seen," and Mr. Hayward laughed.
It was the laugh that Douglas could not bear. It was the laugh that cut deepest into his pride, so he slipped from his father's lap and back into bed with a lump in his throat and a very heavy heart.
It may haye been that Annette's sensitive conscience troubled her this night, but it is more probable that a word had been whispered in her ear. At any rate, she was hereafter more disposed to humor Douglas in his day-dreams and more willing to rehearse the old fairy-tales that set the boy's mind a whirl. It was fortunate for Douglas that her mood had changed, for his father, after receiving the news of his election to the United States Senate, had left the city.
Paperers and pairtters came day after day, freshening the old house from attic to cellar. Douglas watched them in their work, made balls with their putty, rode on the saw-horses, made friends with carpenter and floor cleaner, and assumed an important air of proprietorship.
Soon warm days came to replace the penetrating Charleston winter; balmy breezes from the Cooper blew open the buds of the magnolia, aqd the garden violets in their Southern luxuriance bloomed beneath honeysuckle and yellow-jessamine. The sweetness of Charleston springtime was in the air, was in the cooing of the babies on the Battery, in the soft "swash" -of the waves as they splashed against the rocks. Everyone was happy, and happiest of all was Douglas. The crabs were biting well and he plied his net each day while Annette sat on the old mossgrown steps. He romped in Battery Park, he climbed the base of Jasper monument. The only marring element was the absence of his father. In the evening when Douglas ate his supper all alone and talked to Annette or his "Belle Dame," he would wonder when his father was coming back, and his brown eyes would become wistful.
At last a letter came addressed, not to the housekeeper, but to Master Douglas Hayward. Father was coming back. He had been busy but wanted to see Doug-las.
RICHMOND COLLEGE MESSENGER
417
The boy ran from room to room in his excitement crying at the top of his voice:
"Father is coming! Father is coming!"
The housekeeper was very busy, but she found time to give Annette a significant glance and to pat Douglas's curls. The sleek black coachman broke the passive rigidity of his face by an elastic grin. Something was in the air and the child felt it indefinably.
"He is coming tonight," Douglas cried, "tonight, and it is six o'clock now. A clean suit, Annette, and my best one."
At -eight, wheels crunched the gravel drive and Douglas grew peevish when Annette refused to pronounce his hair properly parted. He heard voices below and the front door closed before Douglas reached the stairs. Mr. Haywood stood in the doorway, looking unusually young and handsome, but the housekeeper thought that he was awkward when he said,-
" Come, Douglas, I have brought you a new mother."
But Douglas scarcely heard him. With a little cry the child bounded across the library and right into a pair of outstretched arms.
"La Belle Dame, La Belle Dame," he cried. "I knew you would come."
The Lure of the Old World
By Walter Beverly, '11.
TIMOTHY MARVIN lighted his pipe, and leaned back in the chair near the window of the room which he occupied as a day student. He was preparing to think over his past record at Emerton College and, if possible, outline for himself a brilliant career in the session just beginning. Down on the campus he could see some of his friends playing ball. He sighed because he was not with them, and then he thought once more of how miserably he had failed on mathematics the year before. He sat up and began to kick the radiator vigorously, while he whistled a sad melody which he had caught a few nights before at the vaudeville.
"What are you tryi'ng to celebrate now, Marvin?"
The voice came from the open door behind him. He turned quickly. It was Simmons, the tall, gawky individual with a rathe1 small head, which was usually inclined far over towards his right shoulder. He was the occupant of the room
"Come in, Simmons, and sit down at that table and help me calculate the cubic contents of that radiator, won't you?" he said, smiling. Simmons sat down and grinned.
"What's wrong?" he asked, "with you and the radiator?"
"Nothing much. Old Baldy has just told me that I must take all of his second year math over again this year."
"Hard luck, old man. That's a stiff course-I myself came near not making it, but I thought that you would make it alright. Did he really flunk you?" asked Simmons seriously.
"Come off, Simmons. You know he did. You talk about having difficulty in making math, when you took the medal. Math is about the only thing you do know." Marvin chuckled as he watched Simmons frown.
"I don't know about that, now. I'm not much on mathematics, you know. But I've been appointed instructor in first year math, anyway. I can't see why they selected me, can you?"
"Yes, you told me about that this morning. By the way, Simmons, can you coach me a few hours a week in math this session? I've got to make that class this time, or it is all up with my degree. I'd like actually to make a record under Old Baldy once, in order to show him and my father I'm not a numbskull, at least. The old man said that he would not let me come back next year unless I do make this math. Will you coach me?"
"Probably so, if there's enough money in it. But I thought you were going to give all of your time to literature and languages this year."
"I'm sick of literature, Simmons. I pleaded my good marks in English with my father, when he was lecturing me about this darned math, and he just laughed and said that was child's play-that any fool could loaf in the shade and master literature written in his own mother tongue, but that it took brains to creep up the hill of science. I'm coming to believe that, more or less. What good will my brilliant essays, clever stories, and fragments of great novels do me when I get out into life where I will have to cope with men whose intellects have been carefully trained to think straight? Say, Simmons, don't sit and gape at me like an idiot, but tell me what's the use of wasting good ink and good paper when a fellow might be filling his head with useful scientific facts? Will you coach me? I'll pay you what you ask. Do you want the job?"
"Yes, yes," said Simmons, hurriedly, "we'll begin this afternoon, if you say so. But let's arrange the terms first. You needn't run down the classics, though. I wouldn't mind having your Greek and Latin and your writing talent, Marvin. And I'd like to see you know some math if you want to-I wouldn't mind so much seeing you take the math medal this year, in fact "
"Do you think I could possible do that with my preparation? I'd give my head almost if I could. Could I do it, Simmons? How the old man would stare!" Marvin said rapturously, as he mentally saw himself on commencement night receiving the highest honors in the hated mathematics .
"You might," he said.
That afternoon Marvin and Simmons made definite arrangements about the coaching and Marvin began to study mathe-
420 RICHMOND COLLEGE MESSENGER
matics very hard, though spasmodically. His friends were surprised to see how successfully he at first attacked analytical geometry. At the end of the first month, the editor of the college magazine was bewailing the fact that he could not get a single story or essay from Marvin, and the fellows told him that he was rapidly becoming a nonentity in his literary society. Then a reaction set in, and Marvin found himself gradually drifting back into his old habits of reading, writing, loafing, and going to the theatre. He made the first term of mathematics with a very small margin. He told himself that he would have to institute some radical reforms in his system of education. The medal was hardly to be thought of now. His ambition had so simmered down that he hoped to make the class with honor no higher than that of the average student. Simmons constantly begged him to study harder. He excused himself by earnestly repeating again and again that it was not in his nature to study mathematics and that the medal was free for any one else that would want it, as far as he was concerned. This attitude towards college honors would probably never have changed had it not been for a complication of circumstances which his finite mind could not possibly foresee. About the beginning of the last term there was an event which had not cast the slightest shadow before it as a warning. His soul was captured by a pair of brown eyes and carried away to regions of excruciating bliss. He loved her as no one can lov~xcept any youth with a bit of imagination in his character and a fresh heart not impervious to Cupid's darts. When she told him that she expected to spend the next summer travelling in Europe he immediately swore to himself that a European tour was the only rational thing a young fellow in his third year at college could think of for a vacation. He therefore promptly assailed his father one evening after supper, for funds and leave of absence during July and August of that year, stating that he had an irrespressible longing to see London, Paris, Switzerland, and the rest of the Old World. The old gentleman surveyed him calmly and said, "How are you getting along in mathematics, sir?"
RICHMOND COLLEGE MESSENGER 421
"Oh, fairly well, father, but, begging your pardon, has that anything to do with my request?" asked Marvin, trying to smile, but with little success.
"Just this much, Timothy; I readily grant your request, but on this one condition, namely, that on commencement night you stand up and receive that mathematics medal. Yes, I want you to see a little of travel, but I don't want you to be an ignoramus. That's my first, final, and only answer, my son."
Young Marvin turned away in despair as his father quietly resumed his newspaper. He went to his room to think. The problem that presented itself was seemingly impossible: given a man with no mathematical ability and no preparation, to do a year's work in three months and take a medal, which was competed for by numerous hard students and mathematical prodigies.
"There is no way out of it," he muttered, laying his head on his arms which sprawled on the desk. "No medal, no Europe." He gritted his teeth in agony. Then he leaped up and pounded the desk with all his might.
"In little Cupid's name!" he shouted, and stood listening for a moment to observe if he had startled any of the family.
"There is possibly one item yet unconsidered-Simmons!"
He danced about the room for a while in boyish glee and then was off for the college.
He found Simmons in his room, his head cocked on one side, and his small eyes peering intently into his calculus.
"Look here, Simmons" he shouted, and then added in subdued tones, "I've got to have that medal now."
Simmons grinned in derision as he said with a ring of finality in his voice, "You can't do it now, Marvin."
"I know it," said Marvin, "but you can."
"What do you mean?"
"You do the work, and your work takes the medal-for me!"
"Have you lost your senses, Marvin, or do you think I have no sense of honor?''
"Neither, you idiot, but listen: you are crazy for more college honors-I know that, and if you will let me have your ability in mathematics I will take the writer's medal for you."
"What?"
RICHMOND COLLEGE MESSENGER
"I mean it."
"Don't talk so loud-the fellows across the hall will hear you. Yes, I'd like to have the writer's medal, and, Marvin, if the thing can be done, I'll do all your exercises in math. I'll slip points on the monthly tests and all that I can do to help you take that medal, I'll do. You can do it, too. And you give me an article that will take the writer's medal?"
"Yes. There's not a man here that wields a more skilful pen than I, though I don't know math."
They shook hands silently and Marvin went back home with a great burden lifted from his heart He could not keep from whistling on his way up-stairs to his room. Sitting down at his desk, he drew forth paper and pen and began writing. Page after page came from his pen. Some of them were scarcely legible on account of passages and words marked out; others looked like copyplate in their neatness. Some time after midnight he threw down the work and lighted his pipe. It was finished, and the next thing was to copy it. Soon he knocked the ashes from his pipe and seized his pen again. As the hours stole gently away, with sleepless, wide eyes, he copied rapidly in his small, neat handwriting. Scarcely a word was altered after it was once written. At length daylight rushed in upon him, before he was aware that the hours had fled. Glancing around with a start, he turned out his light and went to work once more. When he was called to breakfast, he said he was not coming down, on account of some important writing that he had to do. The last word was written, and he again lighted his pipe. He gazed affectionately at the mass of papers before him. They were loaded with burning words about a man's first and only love, brown eyes a:µd the vicissitudes of college life. He saw his very soul gazing back at him from out the multitude of words. Suddenly he arose from his chair with a great throb in his heart and began to walk the floor.
Yes, he must face the question. Was this child of his brain legitimate? He stared stupidly for a long time, and then sitting down wearily, he said with a slow, sad smile, murmuring almost in whispers:
RICHMOND COLLEGE MESSENGER 423
"Right or wrong, it is a sacrifice to the light of thy brown eyes. I'll do it." He folded up the manuscript, and went to bed. -considering the writer's medal as good as his own--or Simmons', rather-he went up to the college that afternoon and gave to his tutor im mathematics what he had written, with instructions to burn the manuscript as soon as he could get the story typewritten.
"Now for the math. medal," he said to Simmons, who grinned at him in silence.
"The only man I have to fear at all," said Marvin as if to himself, "is that freshman, Jack Harland. He is the quickest man in the class in some respects, and yet the fellows say that he does not study very much and has no desire for the medal. But even if he should do his worst against me, I'm relying on your head, Simmons, and I don't think that the fellow has much show against both of us, do you?"
"Well, it's like this," returned Simmons, "I confess that I don't know much math, but as for Harland, I doubt if he makes the class even. He's more like you, I judge from his appearance, and I am confident that though he can write verse, he knows nothing about math."
And thus the case of Jack Harland was dropped. Harland was up for a degree on this, his first year at Emerton. He had come from a college in the other end . of the State and no one knew much about the man, or why he had quit a college whose standing was as high, if not higher than that of Emerton. There was a rumor of some kind of disgrace, but it was only a rumor, and Harland was rather popular among the men and women at Emerton. Marvin knew him and liked him.
The professor of mathematics at Emerton was surprised at the manner in which Marvin awoke from his apathy during the last months of that session, and in his really kind old heart he said to himself that he had always believed that Marvin had something in him if only he would study. The professor of course thought that Marvin's ptogress was genuine, and, in a large measure it was, for second year mathematics lost most of its horror in the halo of light thrown around it from two brown eyes that belonged to a person who knew nothing about it and cared less. He
RICHMOND COLLEGE MESSENGER
thought he could learn to love even science for her sake, and urged on by such a powerful stimulus, his intellect grew and expanded, until it could master such abstruse matters as problems in analytic geometry and ·higher algebra. Simmons himself was surprised at the time Marvin spent on the class, and would tell him that it was hardly necessary to study so hard under the circumstances. But Marvin would work on without answering. With only a little of Simmons' help the written work which he was reg uired to hand in was almost flawless.
The awarding of the mathematics medal was based partly on class work, but chiefly on a special examination for those who wished to compete for it. This number was usually large, and Simmons believed that it would be possible to walk into the examination room on the pretext of delivering a telegram to Marvin, and then slip the assistance that would be needed to take the medal. The chances were not all in their favor, but the fact that Simmons was a mathematical freak, and that in addition, he was the professor's right hand man, in possession of his absolute confidence, made matters assume a very optimistic exterior. The last fight for the medal came at last. Marvin had been studying day and night. He neglected his dress and wasted away until he began to look like a skeleton. His friends told him that his very face was beginning to remind them of a worn out text-book. On the day of the examination, a day which he never forgot, the competitors were hardly settled down to work when Simmons knocked at the door with a yellow paper in his hand and the eternal grin on his face.
The telegram contained no serious intelligence, he told the professor, but it was absolutely necessary that Marvin should receive it and write a reply. · He had even taken the liberty to break the envelope before interrupting Marvin, he said.
"Certainly, come in, Mr. Simmons," said the professor. ·
"Give me that scrap and get out of here," whispered Marvin hurriedly, "this thing is a dead cinch."
Marvin hardly looked up from his paper, crumpled up the blank scrap and threw it down. Simmons withdrew with a perplexed frown, went back to his room, got out a neatly typewritten manuscript, and had soon submitted it to the judges in
RICHMOND COLLEGE MESSENGER 425
the writer's contest. When he returned to his room two hours later, he found Marvin dancing merrily about, more like a child than a man.
"Europe! Europe!" he yelled with delight, "Gee! won't the old man grunt and stare! Simmons, he's promised to send me to Europe if I take this medal."
"What?"
"Yes, old crook neck, it's a fact. Go with me!" And he pounded Simmons rudely on the back.
"Don't count your chickens before-"
"Man, you're crazy-that exam was dead easy. It will take a round hundred to beat me."
"And you are going to Europe?"
"Yes, and I'll pay every cent of your expenses with me if you'll promise not to talk math all the time."
"Now look here," began Simmons with pathos in his voice, "this is hard luck. I've got to get married the day after commencement. I became engaged a few days ago to the most heavenly little brown-eyed girl within the wide circle of the horizon about this gra,nd old institution. I'd give worlds to go with you but-"
"What are you talking about?" Marvin burst forth, waking up from momentary amazement at the idea of Simmons getting married. "What's her adorable name ,?"
Marvin's countenance was overspread with mingled humor, doubt, and expectancy. "I'm sure you know her-I've heard her speak of you often," ·said Simmons. "Her name is Ruby Jones."
Marvin's countenance fell, as he asked brokenly, "Oh, you don't mean-the railroad p 'resident's daughter?"
"Yes. Her brown eyes and the writer's m edal will somewhat atone £qr that tour I can't take with you," said Simmons with a faint, but perceptible sneer in his voice.
"I wish that math medal was in -I believe you don't swear, Simmons? Well I wish it was in the country where it would melt, if you please," and Marvin walked calmly out of the room.
RICHMOND COLLEGE MESSENGER
There could be no mistake. The brown eyes were treacherous. He had thought she loved him, although she had never said so. She had only been flirting with him after all, he mused, on his way home;
"Just like her, after all," he mumbled. "I can see now that she was crazy over college men. That's all she saw in me. She was smitten by Simmon's mathematical brains."
With a glum face he went to his room. He was sick of medals. He had an odd fancy that a certain meda.l would burn his fingers. He hoped that in some way it would turn out that some one else had taken it. And the worst was, he thought, the hated Simmons would take the writer's medal, with an effusion that he had sacrificed to the light of two brown eyes.
Commencement was but a few days off. At first he decided that he would stay away but was seized with an irresistible impulse to stand up and receive the medal in the public gazethe medal that he felt that he did not deserve, and then seek out Simmons and throw the thing in his face. If he resented it, he would-well, do something worse, and fly across the seas.
Thus it was that he found himself among his gay friends on the night of commencement. The two medals in which he and Simmons had been especially interested were to be awarded that night. The names of the winners had not yet been announced, and all the competitors were in breathless suspense, until Mr. Jones, the noted railroad president, was called to the platform to present the writer's medal and the medal in second year mathematics.
Mr. Jones did something then that had never been done before at Emerton College. In a precise, dignified little speech, he con£erred on one man the two medals which Simmons and Marvin had thought were certainly to become theirs. That man was Jack Harland.
Marvin stared stupidly for an instant, and then with a smile, that had not been seen on his face for weeks, he applauded the speaker until his hands ached. When the audience was dispersing he sought out Harland among the crowd of admirers and congratulated him with a
RICHMOND COLLEGE MESSENGER 427
warmth and sincerity that Harland could not then understand. They walked out into the moonlight together.
"Harland," said Marvin, "you have robbed me of a trip to Europe alright, but I assure you that my respect for you has grown to-night-even if you are a freshman.
They both laughed heartily.
"But how have I interfered with your trip to Europe?"
Marvin told him about his father's promise and Harland gave a yell that the cynic would think undignified in a college graduate.
"Why, man," he said, "the very thing! My father has given me a neat little sum with a special request that I spend it in any quarter of the globe I choose to. He also advised that I take a friend, preferably a college mate with me. You are the man. Where shall we go-to Europe? Shall we sail next week?"
"A thousand thanks, Harland, but I am not so fond of Europe as I once was."
Then Marvin told Harland some meagre details about how a pair of brown eyes had jilted him. He wanted to tell him the whole history of that year, but wisdom forbade.
"Brown eyes, did you say? I'll bet a fortune-say, what's her name?"
"Ruby Jones."
" Cheer up then, you are but one in . a long list of her victims for this year, to my certain knowledge . I also am in that list, Marvin."
"You?" ejaculated Marvin.
"Sure thing. You and I are bound together now in bonds of mutual sympathy. Miss Jones is to be married to Simmons to-morrow, as you probably know. I say you've just got to spend the summer with me. Let's go to Paris and f01get it."
Plunging his hands into his pockets, Marvin did some more thinking. Simmons would be married to the brown-eyed girl the next day Yes, he would go somewhere in the world there might be eyes of another color, and just as beautiful.
"If you refuse me this favor, Marvin, I shall never forgive you," broke in Harland, impatiently.
428 RICHMOND COLLEGE MESSENGER
"The old man may object, Harland, but I shall be twenty-one in a few days. Yes, I will go with you."
The two shook hands and separated for the night. Marvin whistled as he strolled across the campus towards home. He glanced up at Simmons' room as he passed, and gave a long yell of triumph, but there was in it a faint echo of sadness.
The Sea Monster
''WELL,
By Henrietta Bronston Runyon, '12.
of all the stupid places I ever saw, this is die worst," pouted the Red-haired Girl, looking · toward land from where she stood on the larboard deck. "Why, we haven't even seen a whale spout. Excuse me from Idzunie. The Trans-Siberian would be preferable."
She had been immersed for three years in the gay, fast life of Shanghai, and the little coaling station of Idzunie, a typical little Japanese fishing village, with its scattered, thatched mud huts, lying under the very shadow of Fujiyama, did not attract her. Idzunie boasted of nothing but scenery, and what did she care for scenery, even though some "sticks" did say it was the most beautiful in the world? She turned her gaze seaward and frowned. Yes, it was beautiful, she supposed; she had to admit that. The sun was just about to set, and each of the sharp, ragged peaks that had been all day a misty blue, gray, green, were lit now with spikes of gold, reflected, it seemed, less from the red sky than from the sea of molten gold about them. The square sails of the small fishing crafts in the distance-boats such as one sees only on the Inland Sea,-were deep purple now; but the sight of them annoyed her only the more. What she wanted was fun, amusement, excitement. And the only interesting person on board, the only one besides herself who did not go wild over the scenery, go raving mad and begin writing poetry--or be on the verge of it,-the only person she had considered in the least worth while-that youth . in the White Flannels-had gone fishing! Fishing!-if there was anything she hated worse than scenery that made people maudlin, it was fishing. She preferred the "Cloud-worshipers" to a hot, stupid afternoon of holding a stick with a string tied to it.
"Thank goodness we'll leave here tomorrow. Then that silly boy will have to stay on board, and behave himself, and amuse
430 RICHMOND COLLEGE MESSENGER
me," she sighed, as she turned on her heel and went to her stuffy cabin.
She did not come out again until the dinner gong sounded, and then the youth in the white flannels greeted her. "Missed the time of your life. We had a great day. I caught thirty of those crazy little flat fish we had for breakfast this morning."
"Glad you had a good time," answered the girl sarcastically. "I've been enjoying the view ."
It was evident that the red hair was making itself felt this evening, and the youth was the brunt of all shafts, second only to poor little Idzunie .
"Oh cheer up," said the youth. "Something's bound to happen soon. The fisherman said when you have a sunset like that one this afternoon-all gold sea and purple sails, and the clouds round Fuji like pink cotton-something's doing. It's just like somebody's talking about you when your ears burn. Sure thing . "
"Well, I'm waiting," remarked the Red-haired Girl incredulously.
The evening wore gloomily on. Nothing happened. Not even an extra-strong breeze came up, much less a squall. The moon rose in a clear sky, and things looked propitious for the "cloud-worshipers," but for no one else. Every ragged peak that had been gold-splashed was now black and silver-capped against the brighter sky . The water was almost still,-just ripply, with a broad streak of white moonlight. Conversation lagged perceptibly. Finally the girl declared she was going to bed and strode off to her cabin, her head still up. The youth paced the deck for awhile and then turned in, muttering, "Reckon she can't help it if her hair is red, but she might dye it and not afflict everybody else with that temper. And all because the ship had to lie over a day at a God-forsaken Japanese fishing village. Thank goodness, ten o'clock tomorrow will see us lifting anchor."
The Girl never would say what time in the morning it was; in fact, the Girl never would say anything about it at all. The Youth is the one who tells the tale. Anyhow, it was some time between midnight and dawn that the Red-haired Girl was
RICHMOND COLLEGE MESSENGER 431
wakened by hearing a sound like that of a small boat drawing up to the ship's side. When they were lying in harbor as they were now, the sound of approaching boats waked her easily, and as she thought she heard the splashing of oars-a splashing rather than a regular dip-she sat up in her bunk. The night watchman ran up, calling something in Japanese that the red-haired girl could not understand. He had stopped just outside her port hole, looking over the rail and talking loudly in his barbarous l'anguage. Within the next few moments some sailors came up and more loud talking resulted. The Girl could see them leaning far over the rail of the d~ck, gesticulating as they talked. The splashing continued and the Girl wondered why the boat did not draw up. This really savoured of interestif she could only find out what was going on. Several of the passengers were coming out now, and the Red-haired Girl began to slip rapidly into her clothes. There, at last, came the Quiet Little Lady in Black, and behind her the youth who was saying "-she might be satisfied. Wonder if she's up." The Girl opened her cabin door and ran quickly out onto the deck.
"What is it? " she cried. " Has ldzunie really decided to afford us a little recreation?"
"Don't know," grinned the Youth. "The quarter-master says it's a sea-monster."
The Girl leaned eagerly over the rail. Her cheeks were hot with real excitement, and the breeze that had turned cool since nightfall came gratefully to them. The sea was still yet, just here and ·there a glistening white-cap, and the silver track of moonlight. Close against the side of the ship they could distinguish a long, black form in the midst of the flying spray that wet their faces.
"The creature evidently has got caught in some of the chains or cables down there. See how it lashes," said someone. The noise of the plunging water, the constant clanking of chains, and the creaking of the cables, so deafened them that they had almost to scream to make themselves heard.
"There," called the Youth, "that sailor is letting down a light."
432 RICHMOND COLLEGE MESSENGER
They leaned farther over th~ rail that they might see the better. The little lantern seemed almost lost in the shadow the ship cast over that side, for the moon was behind them. Soon they could see, however, a hard, scaley back with a high ridge down the middle-a dangerous looking, well-armed creature, evidently angry, for he lashed and struggled furiously, throwing the spray higher with every new lash. Then for a moment there would come a lull, to be broken the next moment by even more enraged plunges that dashed the water higher and finer than ever. The Girl strained her eyes to see more, but the light was so feeble and the spray so thick that her efforts were for nothing. Never had she experienced anything like it. This was worth more than one boring day. It was not a whale nor a shark, but some sort of horny-backed monster, more terrible because more rare.
But the Quiet Little Lady in Black was tired and had to go back to bed. The Girl could hardly tear herself away from the rail. She was comforted a little by hearing that the quartermaster said it seemed to be firmly fixed and would most probably still be there in the morning. He had thrown down an iron spike with one end attached to a rope, in the hope of wounding the creature, but it had not penetrated its back, and had only increased the dashing.
"Surely," said the Youth as they parted, "you won't say Idzunie was not a success after all?"
"I should say not!" answered the Girl.
She leaned for awhile in her port-hole when she reached her cabin, looking out into the moonlight and the pool of shadow in front of her. Everyone had left the rail, but she could still hear just as distinctly as ever the splashing and tossing of the captured monster. She could see nothing but the flying water on account of the width of the deck.
For a long time she lay in bed listening to the wild struggle outside. In awhile it seemed to grow fainter, and she wondered if this Thing were lashing itself to death, or whether it had managed to disengage itself. She got up and looked at the sea where the spray no longer dashed so high, A few yards from the boat she could discern the black form surrounded by spray
RICHMOND COLLEGE MESSENGER 433
and moonlit foam. The cables were giving way. Suppose the creature escaped before day!
She was up before the others the next morning, eager to see the object of last night's adventure, and it was she who greeted the Youth when he came up, sleek and smooth, before breakfast. "Come look at the monster quick!" she cried. "There he is-over yonder." She pointed a little way to the starboard. "What -do you think of Idzunie now?"
An old overturned lighter-that was all.
A Love Story
By Stiles H. Ellyson, '10.
The following news item appeared in the Courier in the fall of 1905:
LIFE SENTENCE.
Wytheville, Oct. 11. The Court of Appeals today sentenced Mollie Turner to life imprisonment in the State penitentiary for the murder of her husband in January of this year. The jury returned a verdict of guilty after only fifteen minutes of deliberation. The crime has some extenuating circumstances, brutality of the husband being alleged. For this reason the usual penalty was commuted to life imprisonment.
Much delay was caused in the trial by the un s uccessful attempt to find Joe Turner, the son of the accused, who had an equal share in the murder. It is believed he has either skipped the country or is in hiding in the wild mountainous districts of his home. The mother and son are of the lowest type of mountaineers, neither being able to read or write. The natural secretiveness of the mountaineers has rendered it almost impossible to get a satisfactory description of the son, to which is probably due his successful evasion of the officers of the laws.
A long black line of freight cars, laden with coal, was approaching the city of Richmond one hot summer afternoon in the year of 1906. As it neared the suburbs it gradually slackened its speed. Suddenly a man was seen to spring from some place between the cars and to roll violently down the embankment where he lay with hands over his head protecting himself from the rain of coal and curses which descended upon him as the freight moved on. He was a tramp, no doubt. He looked it, grimy, ragged and disheveled as he was. Only his youthful appearance and a certain air of doggedness about him would have caused any comment whatever. For a while he lay there against the bank in the hot evening sun, gazing with dreary eyes
over the quivering monotony of a broomstraw field; and then picking himself up he stumbled on down the track until he was lost in the labyrinth of Richmond.
Several nights thereafter the neighborhood of the State penitentiary, which is in Richmond, was haunted by a dark figure which flitted from shadow to shadow, seemingly in the greatest fear and something of desperation. It seemed to be spying upon the great white towering walls of the prison. It would remain in one place for a time, gazing, brooding, possibly struck mute by the scene of death and despair, by the ghastly nakedness of the ponderous walls gleaming in the glare of many arc lights. It grew late. The great bell of the prison struck eleven o'clock. The figure shuddered. Then there came the sound of a heavy step along the deserted street. It approached. The outlines of a policeman emerged from the shadows swinging his stick in gay unconcern. The figure of the tramp was plainly disturbed. It crouched lower and lower behind a tree box, trembling, eyes wide with fear. The officer came on, he took one step past, and then, as if by fate, his careless eye caught sight of the crouching figure. He turned aside. The figure was absolutely still. It was evidently some tramp asleep, he thought.
"Here, get along," he growled, giving the figure a nudge with his stick.
As if releasing a spring it sprang up. So suddenly indeed did it rise that the officer was taken by surprise and hastily clutched it by the arm. In the faint light he distinguished the frightened features of a boy not over twenty. He was trembliqg like a leaf and speechless.
"Here, what's the matter?" exclaimed the officer, shaking his limp arm.
'' N othin','' he managed to stammer out.
The policeman was in an excellent good humor that evening and noting the youth of his prisoner he concluded that the scare he had given him was sufficient for this case.
"Well, get along," he ordered, "can't allow anybody to sleep on the streets. Better go home to mamma," he added jocularly and strode away.
436
RICHMOND COLLEGE MESSENGER
The boy stood for a while staring after him with wan, frightened face. He seemed breathless with wonder. Slowly his eyes turned towards the penitentiary. He eyed it in contemplation a moment, then suddenly giving away, a long,low,inarticulate cry escaped his lips and he turned his face to the tree box and sobbed bitterly. Finally he turned and slowly passed out of sight in the darkness of the night.
The following night saw the same youthful figure keeping its sorrowful vigil. And so with the next and the next, until almost a week had passed since the first appearance. Little by little he seemed to grow bolder. He even ventured one night to walk rapidly past the guard stationed at the great gate of the prison. The next he walked by more slowly. Nothing happened. He was reassured.
The following day he appeared at the gate of the prison. In the light of day he seemed even younger than by night, his long arrow face more haggard, his sensitive mouth more troubled and his great brown eyes more like that of some frightened animal. For a time he hesitated without the gate, eyeing the sphinx-like guard, peering into the barred interior of the prison, then gazing with awe upon the powerful Winchester which the guard carried slung over his arm. He shifted from one foot to the other; he nervously rubbed his chin with one of his great bony hands. The guard appeared utterly oblivious of his presence.
"Howdy, sir!" this ejaculation had suddenly burst from the youth as if by some mechanical force. The guard glanced down from the steps and smiled amusedly at the curious figure below him. It was not the first time he had impressed the innocents.
Seeing the smile the boy's face relaxed into an answering one. "Nice day, s'ir," he ventured, crossing the sidewalk to the step below the man.
The guard looked down again and smiled once more that slow smile of amused superiority. "Yes," he said drily.
Again the nervous grin broke out on the face of the youth. He excitedly rubbed his chin.
"Say, mister," he exclaimed, "does they 'low anybody to go in thar ?"
RICHMOND COLLEGE MESSENGER 437
The guard was getting tired. "Yes, for a quarter," he answered abruptly.
The boys features beamed anew. With nervous fingers he drew from some obscure recess of his clothing an old tobacco bag, untied some devious knots in its strings and drew from its shallow depth an old and well worn quarter.
"Thar, sir," he cried, "thar's it. Ken I go in now?"
This was evidently unlooked for by the guard who with a sharp look of suspicion examined the boy with new interest . The youth paled under his glance.
"Better go and get you some breakfast, kid," advised the man gently.
"Had some, sir," and with a quick movement he extracted a knawed bit of roll from his pocket as evidence.
"Queer cuss," thought the guard. "Rather amusing too." "What d'ye expect to see in there?" he asked . "There's nothing in there but a lot of crooks all caged up.-Damn!" he exclaimed. For the boy had gone pale as a ghost at the question. He clasped his great hands together in sudden terror. His great eyes searched wildly for an answer.
"Why, nothin', sir!" he exclaimed hoarsely, " nothin' perticular, no sir, I jiss wants to see 'em."
He stood tremblingly while the man eyed him in silence. "Yes," said the man drily. "Payne!" he called, turning suddenly. An officer appeared within the barred gates. "Here, Payne, here's a young man wants to be conducted through the prison. And-" the rest of the sentence was whispered through the bars. Its effect was to make the other officer glance intently at the youth.
The boy had become more and more restless. "Say, mister," he exclaimed at last uneasily, "I don't reckon I want to do it this morning."
"Oh, that's all right, kid," said the guard. "Don't get scared at all these bars and locks. Come on," he said heartily, taking him by the arm, "we won't charge you anything, today."
Somewhat reassured the youth permitted himself to be lead through the iron gates They clanged behind him He shivered. He followed the officer mechanically into a small waiting room.
438
RICHMOND COLLEGE MESSENGER
With a "Be back in a moment," he was left alone. The silence and darkness palled on him. Somewhere in the distance he could hear the steady tramp, tramp of feet. He heard stern voices commanding. He heard the clang of iron against iron. He shivered again.
In the office of the superintendent an excited consultation was going on between the superintendent and the two guards.
"Well, we will go and see this youngster," the superintendent at last concluded, and the three repaired to the waiting room.
"Well, my boy, want to see the crooks, eh? Glad to show them to you. Always glad when visitors come. Want you to put your name in our visitor's book, too." Saying this the superintendent indicated the large volume lying on a table.
"I don't know nothin' about writing," the boy stammered. "What! can't write? Why, where have you been all this time without writing?" said the superintendent with a glance at the two officers.
"Up in the country, sir, I just haint learned, sir."
"Up in the mountains?" suggested the superintendent.
"Yes, sir," the youth said anxiously.
"Um-hum. Here give me your name and I'll write it down for you."
The youth paled. "James Tanner," he stammered.
The superintendent looked quickly at his companions. "Turner?" he ejaculated.
"Oh! no sir! Tanner!" A great fear seemed to paralyze the boy. He looked from one to the other of the men, eyes startled, throat working.
"Very well," said the superintendent gravely as he calmly copied down his name. "Now then," he said with a wink at the two officers, "we'll go and see what we can see."
They led him _through a long corridor, out into the great enclosure within the wall. The various buildings of the prison, the shoe factory, the prison for men and the prison for women were grouped before him. His eyes glanced from one building to another, then back to the men and a suspicion lurked in that look. He scarcely comprehended the scene before him so great was his anxiety.
RICHMOND COLLEGE MESSENGER
The superintendent was explaining the different buildings in the professional voice of a guide. The boy seemed not to hear him.
"We'll go to the shoe factory first," said the superintendent, with a glance at the guards. "That is where we can see most of the prisoners at work."
They entered the building, they passed through room after room of machinery and men, working, mute, resigned under the eyes of overseers. They boy moved as in a dream, his face expressionless and pale, his eyes wild and burning with a fierce light, with a mixture of desperation and fear. He heard the oily voice of the superintendent saying, "On the next floor the women work at sewing on various parts of the shoes." He awoke with a start. They were about to ascend the stairs.
"No!" he said, stopping short. "Please, sir, I reckon I've seen enough of all this," he pleaded. His face had gone pale as death.
"Oh', come on, boy,"said the superintendent, heartily slapping him on the back. "Why, the best part of it is upstairs."
The boy looked around helplessly. There was no escape; suddenly he seemed -to grow older. His shivering left him. His mouth ceased to twitch. His eyes blazed with a new determination. Without a word he ascended the stairs, an open door showed the interior of a room full of machines over which many women were bending.
The youth stepped hurriedly through the doorway, with a quick look he searched the faces of the women bent to their tasks. Suddenly his face brightened and a flush ran over it. He turned upon the three men who were watching, his face convulsed with hate .
"Now, damn ye," he shrieked, shaking his great fis t at them, "take me! take me! Yes,I'm Joe Turner and thar's my mother, too!"
A loud agonized cry cut him short, he wheeled. In the midst of the machinery a woman had risen. Her gaunt face was writhing with joy and despair.
"Mother!" he cried, and in a twinkling was locked in her embrace.
The Victor
By Pearl S. Campbell, 'n.
IT was on the eve of the fall of Richmond. The air was murky and evil-smelling from the dust and gunpowder. The sound of cannon and of other heavy firing seemed to still reverberate and echo from the distant battle-ground. Everywhere was bustle, confusion and heartaches. Ambulance after ambulance filled with wounded officers and private soldiers forced their way through the crowded streets and pushed on to the improvised and crowded hospitals.
Slowly following one of the ambulances was an old one-horse wagon which groaned and creaked a protest in every ungreased joint against its being pressed into further service. This conveyance was drawn by a small gray mule, which showed by his many scars a close companionship with the war-like times. Sitting sideways on the plank, which served as a driver's seat, was an aged, white-haired negro of the old regime. He held the frayed rope-lines in his serviceaworn hands while he divided his attention between driving and the still form in the back of his wagon, which was covered by a ragged cavalry blanket.
The man groaned.
"Are we almost there, Rich?"
"Almos', Marse John, almos'. Jest you go 'long to sleep and try to git a little res', case I'm gwine take keer ob you."
The man $ighed heavily.
"But shall I be able to see and to provide for my boy before I die?"
"Don' you talk about dying, Marse John," begged the old man. "You jes' break my ole heart, you do, and you ain't gwine die; case who gwine take keer of little Marse, and ole Rich if you dies?"
They rattled on in silence for awhile. Groans from the woundaj men in the ambulance just ahead of them could be
RICHMOND COLLEGE MESSENGER 441
heard distinctly, with now a'.nd then a cry from some poor fellow who was already in the clutch of delirium.
"Rich?"
"Yes, Ma:rse John?"
"You'll bring my boy to me tonight before it's too late, won't you, Rich?"
"I'll sartinly try to fotch him to you jes' as soon as I kin, Marse John, so jes' ease yore mine now, case we right at the horspital.
Rich lifted the form of his master in his arms; carried him easily into the house, and tried to make him comfortable on a cot by an open window.
This elegant room with its tapestry hung walls, and its lofty ceiling, painted with graceful nymphs and smiling loves, must have in memory of its former days of grandeur, looked with surprise upon the scene which it now witnessed. The waxed and highly-polished floors, which once reflected grand dames and courtly gentlemen dancing the stately minuet, are scratched and dull now. The rich brocade and gilt-furniture has been replaced with rude cots and pallets containing suffering and dying men. The air, which before the war was sweet with the fragrance of many flowers, and with rare perfumes of the ladies' toilettes, is now fetid with the odor of drugs and fevered breathing.
The room is dimly lighted, and the smoking lamp throws startling silhouettes of gaunt, suffering men upon the wall. All is quiet here, save for the laboured breathing and occasional groans of the wounded, and the hushed steps of those good women who soothed so much suffering at this sad time.
On a cot by one of the windows lay Rich's master. His face showed that he had won its severity by many hard fought battles with self. The nurse crossed over to where he lay.
"Ole Rich must be here in a little while now," she whispered, as she gently rubbed his cold hands. "Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable while I go my rounds?"
The sick man shook his head. Presently being soothed by a strong narcotic which the nurse had given him a little while before, he fell into a troubled sleep, muttering now and then the name of his little son, and calling for "Virginia."
442 RICHMOND COLLEGE MESSENGER
Rich entered the room softly. He was followed by a sweetfaced women dressed in black, who led by the hand a little boy. The woman slipped into a chair by the sick man's side and took the child on her lap. Holding his curly head close to her shoulder, she whispered to him that he must be very quiet and not wake Daddy, for poor Daddy was sick and must not be disturbed. The child, with quick understanding, sat quite still holding tightly to the woman's hand. Once the sick man called out: "Virginia!" The woman starting clasped the child closer to her, while the tears ran unheeded down her beautiful, worn face.
Presently the child grew restless, and as the man moaned in his sleep, the little fellow, unable to control himself longer, leaned over, and p~tting the loved face cried in a shrill treble voice:
"Why don't you take Big Man home Daddy? Big Man wants to go home to see his pony."
The sick man slowly opened his eyes. Seeing the woman and child beside him, a look of ineffable peace stole over his face, erasing all of the sorrow and pain-lines.
"My son!" he cried joyfully, trying to gather the little fellow to him in his weak arms.
The woman held the boy to him while he patted his father's face a hundred times. Old Rich leaned over from his side of the cot and took the child away from the woman who was getting faint from holding his chubby little body so long. The excitement was telling on the man, who seemed to be growing steadily weaker.
"Call the nurse to give me a stimulant," he asked. "I don't want to die tintil I have told you what is on my mind."
After taking the medicine, the sick man lay quite still, holding to the woman's hands, and looking at her as if he could never be satisfied. The woman had sunk to her knees by his side as Old Rich carried away the boy who was becoming restless under so much restraint.
"Virginia," the man's voice was weak, "you know I'm dying!"
The woman's only reply was a convulsive shiver as she tightened her hold upon his hands.
RICHMOND COLLEGE MESSENGER 443
"It all comes back so clear tonight-our happy childhood spent together, the two perfect years of our engagement, the hell of misery through which I passed when your parents forced you ·to give me up. Your marriage, and then mine to a girl whom I could never love. Both of us sacrificed to your parents' ambition for wealth. It seems fate that left you a widow in two years time, and Mary's dying at John's birth . She said at the last that she was doing me her greatest kindness, but God knows I tried to make her happy. The boy has been my one comfort, and now that I know you still love me I've got to go and leave it all. Lord, it seems hard!"
"John, you are killing me," cried the woman, "you are not going to die, you are going to live for the boy and for me. We need you, John , and we are not going to give you up."
"Virginia, you do love me," a great light breaking over his face, "then you will take my boy for me? It was you, dear, who should have been his mother. Let him atone in part for all of the urthappiness which his father caused you. Sometimes you will talk to him about his dad, wont you, Virginia? Poor little beggar, he's had a hard time of it."
The woman lifted her head proudly .
"I love him now as my own child," she cried, "but you,-you who have loved Virginia and have fought such a brave fight for her, are you willing to give up the fight now, when so much depends on your winning? You must live, John,-for me and for the boy. We need you so!"
The man seemed to gather something of the woman's energy, and to become imbued with fresh life. With a renewed hope he gathered the woman to him, while in his voice was a happy mingling of past recollections and present determination. "I have always been willing to do anything that I could for Vir• ginia," he said.
The nurse returning to take the sick man's temperature marveled at his regular pulse-beat, and, at the glow of returning health which she recognized in his now animated face.
"Love has been the victor," she whispered to herself, as smiling with sympathetic understanding, she left the lovers together while she went out to tell Old Rich the good news.
The Call to Rest
C. L. Stillwell, '11.
"The world is too much with us, late and soon Getting and spending we lay waste our powers. •
For this, for everything we are out of tune."-Wordsworth.
I.
Oh, it whispers so gently, this call of the wild, And the song of the mocking-bird-heaven's own childBrings back the calm hours With all of the flowers
That I knew when my heart was as gay and mild As is thine, sweet child, as thine.
II.
Oh, they whisper so gladly, these souls of the trees In the timid embrace of the quivering breeze; The brooklets repeat The call to retreat From the city, and there in the field find ease Such as thine, gay child, as thine.
III.
Oh, the voice on the str eet is so grating and lone, And the cry of the lad 'mid the crowds forlorn Is fraught with despair; My soul, in its care
Longs to flee to the far-stretching fields of morn Where is thine, dear child, is thine.
The Messenger
BOARD OF EDITORS.
RUSSELL G. SMITH, '11 - Editor-in-Chief
R. C. DUVAL, '11
Mu Sigma Rho.
Mu Sigma Rho.
DR. H . A. VAN LANDINGHAM
ASSOCIATE EDITORS.
Assistant Editor
Advisory Editor
Mu Sigma Rho. Philogian.
J . B. Duval - - - - - - Essays
F. W Jones - - - Alumni Editor
R. C Ancarrow - Cap & Gown Philos
C . L . Stillwell - - Exchanges
R. W Wilkins - - - - Poems
W. Beverly - - - - - Stories
S. A. CALDWELL, '11 Business Manager Philologian.
T W. CROXTON, '11
Mu Sigma Rho .
Assistant Business Manager
Spring with that drow sy feeling in the air, Whi ch brings us pain s and care ; Spring with h er h a t s and gowns and ills, Spring with her loves and sighs and liver pills, I s with us once ag ain. (Apologies to S. Lani er.)
Nature has awakened. We acknowledge it. The poets betake themselves to the woodlands, and there beneath the swaying of the pines, write lyrics to their Spring Etc . unrequited loves. The schoolboy begins to brush his hair, wash his face, change his collar and "make eyes" at the little girl behind him. The college "chap" begins to wonder if she loves him; and she puts on her Easter bonnet, either to awaken fresh fires of love or to conceal herself from the eyes of the world. Grandmothers begin to die
RICHMOND COLLEGE MESSENGER
at an alarming rate, and the male grandchildren of the deceased repose comfortably on the ten cent bleachers. What is all this trouble about? Apparently nothing. The sun is just a little warmer; and the capillarity of the sap duets has merely caused the vital fluid of trees and shrubs to rise, and now the leaves burst forth. And yet the whole world is either loafing or in love! Listen. Don't mistake that burning sensation around the fifth rib for the master passion of the human soul. It isn't. Take a tonic. If you feel an irrestible desire to make love to some fair one of sixteen summers, don't do it. You will regret it later on. Sit down and write a poem or a short story and send it to the Messenger. We need it; she doesn't. When the drowsiness of the season begins to creep over you, don't give way to it. Refresh your weary mind with the thought that those dearly beloved term "exams" are fast approaching. Remember that before many moons you will be imprisoned in the chapel, and there in the "dim religious light" you will be tortured for a whole week with a series of typewritten questions, which, if answered correctly, mean so many "points" in your liberal education. You cannot afford to sleep now. At present, you must not enjoy the beauties of nature. A stitch in time, you know, is worth two in the bush.
After you have had your knowledge tested(?) and your nerves shattered, you will depart to the country and live for three months like a real human being. "Ain't it grand?" But while you are breathing the pure, untainted air that sweeps over the meadows gathering the fragrance of the summer flowers; while you are eating "real food; and while you are fighting real mosquitoes, don't forget your Alma Mater. After you milk the cow and put the pigs to roost, write a little poetry. When the golden chariot of the sun god has sunk down behind the trees ·on the hillside, and the frogs are serenading in the mill-pond, and the blisters on your hands are beginning to rise, write an essay on the pseudo-classicism of Pope.
In brief, though you are resting, still work. Store up provisions for the next year at college. Come back prepared to beat all records. And may your vacation bring to you health and strength and happiness. Vale.
Cam pus Notes
R. C. Ancarrow, Editor.
Cap and Gown Philosophy.
The Philologians turned the tables on the Mu Sigs in the Inter-Society Orators contest, the Philologian representative receiving the unamimous decision of the judges. This bit of tragedy has cast a gloom over the Mu Sig camp. Note you that history does not always repeat itself. Merit wins in spite of axioms. ·
Following closely upon the above we had our colors lowered a bit by Randolph-Macon in the Inter-Collegiate Debate on April 22nd. This is surely proving to be a Randolph-Macon year but "curses on them" there will come ;i. day of reckoning. A little bird tells us it is going to be next session. Many a "spider" sojourned to Ashland to hear the "Billets" talk and partake of their ice cream and all appreciate the hearty welcome extended us.
lncidently the singing of the Hamilton College men proved to be a most acceptable part of the program. Some of us were even so fortunate as to be able to witness the afternoon exhibi-
448 RICHMOND COLLEGE MESSENGER
tion of base-ball. It is too bad that Hamilton had to be frozen under, as their center fielder did some stella work in the mud patch. Not all of us know that Hamilton is one of the strongest small colleges in this country. We have on record some expressions of the Hamilton men upon the "calico" present but we do not think that there is sufficient demand to print these. Let us repeat: Randolph-Macon won the jaw contest.
Here on the Campus since the last issue there has been pulled off a couple of lectures and three harangues. Dr. Edward Meyer, Ph. D., LL. D., of the University of Berlin, favored us with two very interesting lectures. His subject on Monday, March 28th, was "The Origin and Development of the State," and on Tuesday the 29th, "The Foundation of the German Empire." The people of the city rallied to his support, but the point to note is that this is the only college in America that he favored with his utterances.
Then the Faculty, feeling that they had in stock an excess supply of knowledge which they felt obligated to turn over to the students, selected a series of Faculty Lectures as a legitimate means of accomplishing this end.
Prof. Gaines started the ball a-rolling on April 5th, his subject being Graphic Methods. He had a choice selection of curves and perfect control. That he can put them over (or rather under) is shown by the way they punch out in Junior Math.
Next came Prof. Anderson on April 12th, and he told us all about "William Branch Giles and the Virginia Convention of Twenty-nine-thirty." The students have about arrived at the conclusion that attendance on these lectures is a wise thing and helps class marks, as the Faculty is reported to be very jealous among themselves. We would suggest however that the students be credited with two hours class work for attendance on these lectures.
Finally Dr. Stewart's night rolled around and he had chosen Edgar Allen Poe to discourse upon. Now Edgar was a jolly sort of a fellow and full of possibilities, occasionally full of something else. We really don't believe that Edgar cares to be elected to that body of old maids known as the "Hall of Fame," under
RICHMOND COLLEGE MESSENGER
the maternal guidance of New York University. "Bobby's" talk was 0. K. we are sure, but the most noticeable feature was "Bobby's" absence, for the 19th found him with an acute attack of indigestibili ty. ''Bobby'' has our sympathy; but anyhow he was considerate enough to be stricken in the morning and not wait until after classes were over. Profs. don't generally show such hea"d work.
The Chi Epsilon Literary Society held a debate during the past month, but we didn't get a bid and so we don't know anything about it. It is rumored however that the Suffragettes were defeated.
The even tenor of our way was rudely broken last month by the visit of a "jimmy" artist. Two special convocations in one day is quite a little out of the ordinary. It was a neat way of knocking out a couple of classes on which we congratulate the principals; but we think that they were playing with fire. Five minutes more would have turned it into a very embarrassing joke. Remember, the man who falls over boa.rd and is too frightened to swim gets but little sympathy.
This little above incident riled Mr. Smith, our famous Sleuth, and he concluded that he wasn't going to have any Fay-Harris tricks worked on him. So he pricked up his subtilities and cast his optics about in search of the culprit who had previously worked a few "jokes" on the "stoods," as the above convocations brought to light. It wasn't long before he had "Erasmus" Johnson in the clutches of the law. The beginning of his trial on the 21st afforded about 100 of the stoods a chance to "cut" a few classes. Now all the boys are rejoicing, not so much over the arrest or even the conviction of "Erasmus," as over this unexpected recovery of their furnishings, which can now be "hocked" for ready cash, since they are unfit for wear.
450 RICHMOND COLLEGE MESSENGER
Mr. "B," in Biology-"Doctor, I have heard that an operation for appendicitis shortens a man's life . Is it true?'
Dr. Baggarly-"Yes, quite often . "
Miss Morrissette to Mr. Crump, the mus1c1an, "Won't you whistle the words of 'Silvery Moon' for me? I don't know them."
To A Jasper.
He caq't eat peas to save his life, For the blooming things roll off his knife.
All hail to the Aeroplane Club on the campus! "Doc." Thomas has been elected President. The lumber merchants of the city have put in their bids for the lumber to build his first scooter with. Doc's great ambition is to investigate the spectum of the moon, but he is going to wait until Halley's Comet has passed by before soaring aloft.
It is rumored that "Doc" Thomas will withdraw from the faculty, owing to a misunderstanding with Professor Winston over the discovery of Halley's Comet. This is to be regretted, since "Doc" Thomas' place as Instructor in Chemistry, associate in Physics, Professor of Astronomy, President of the Aeroplane Club, Owner of Junior Chemistry Lab., and general proprietor of Richmond College will be hard to fill. There is not another man in the world who could fill these places like "Doc" Thomas.
The following paper was found on the qi.mpus . It bears the initials "W. B. F. C.", and smacks strongly of Fredericksburg.
Comments on the Recent Janitorial Thefts
W.B.F.C.
"Put not your faith and---in trunks."
Dr. Boatwright.
Dr. Loving
Fay, Harris, Johnson "Let us hope it is not a joke." -''Natural resultant 'physical' forces."
RICHMOND COLLEGE MESSENGE . R 451
Prof. Metcalf
Prof. Gaines
Prof. Anderson
Prof. Dickey
Dr. Harris
Dr. Winston
Coach Dunlap
Dr. Whitsitt
Dr. Stewart
Prof. Baggarly
Prof. Van Landingham
Dr. Bingham
Mr. Smith
Lankford and Edmonds
Justice John
"He who steals my purse steals trash."
"The punishm ~nt should be directly proportional to the crime.''
"Four years ago the same thing happened; history repeats itself."
"E pluribus unum, ,sic semper tyrannis."
"Prometheus stole his fire from heaven; where will the janitor get his?"
"Merely the influence of Halley's Comet."
"Tha .t's where our baseball prospects have gone."
"Well- - now-may be he stole and -maybe he he didn't. I-I-I wouldn't like to say."
"Quoth the 'Raven', 'never more'."
"A typical parasitic and pathogenic bacterium."
"Is the young man Harry safe?"
"Filter out the foreign (P) articles carried down by the 'black precipitate'."
"He must have thought I was a Richmond post-office employee."
"Oh, h - h - h - he was mer-mer-merely joking."
"Nigger, if you got that much out of those college students you are the first that ever has. Case dismi ssed."
Athletics
J. B. Hill, Editor.
Doubtless many are laking forward to the appearances of the May issue of the Messenger to learn what we are doing in base ball circles.
The team has been busy playing off the schedule since the last number of the College publication came out and we are now confronted with the most important games of the season : the championship games.
Owing to the fact that most of our men are inexperienced on the diamond, the team has not made a very good showing so far . However there is one encouraging feature about it: in the last games they have made a better showing than in the earlier ones .
On April the third the team left for North Carolina where they crossed bats with four of the best teams among the Colleges of Carolina. This trip was not as successful as the one to the Old North State last year, for then we won "all but one" of the four and this time we were unable to win any games at all.
Since returning three games have been played and the College won two of the three of these, which goes to prove that we are not the worst team that Richmond has ever had by any means.
The last games played shows the improvement they have made since the beginning of the season. That game was played on
RICHMOND COLLEGE MESSENGER 453
April the 20th with the Richmond Collegians and resulted in a victory for the Spiders.
Early in the season the College played the Collegians and was defeated by the score of 8 to 3 and this time the Collegians were defeated by the score of 3 to 1. This shows that the Spiders are developing and are destined to give some of their rivals a good run for the championship. So far there has been no special starring done but all have played well. In describing the last game the Times-Dispatch made the following statement: "Gwathmey was easily the star of the game."
The
Though in the midst of the base ball season we are thinking of the coming year and are planing for the foot-ball season. Manager W. L. O'Flaherty has arranged his schedule and submitted it for the season of 1910.
His schedule is much lighter than the one played last year, the only heavy games being a game with George Washington University on October 29 at Richmond, and the one with North Carolina Agricultural and Mechanical College, at Raleigh, on November 12. All the games will be played in Richmond except one.
The prospects for a strong team are bright, as the manager has been assured that twelve "letter men" of last season will
454 RICHMOND COLLEGE MESSENGER
return to college, and he is also assured of another man who now his place on the team of 1908.
The schedule is as follows:
Oct. 1. Maryland Agricultural College, at Richmond.
Oct. 8. Randolph-Macon College, at Richmond.
Oct. 15. Rock Hill College, at Richmond .
Oct. 22. Gallaudet College, at Richmond.
Oct. 29. George Washington University, at Richmond.
Nov. 5. Hampden-Sydney (championship), at Richmond.
Nov. 12. A. and M. College, at Raleigh.
Nov. 19. William and Mary (championship), at Richmond.
Nov. 26. Randolph-Macon College (championship), at Richmond.
Miss Endora Woolfork Ramsey, Editor.
WANTED. Consolation (Signed, Suffragettes).
WANTED
Some Co-eds to fill vacant chairs m the library on bright afternoons.
WANTED.
Three "Keep off the Grass" signs to be used when Misses Runyon and Pearce are at college. (Messrs. J.B. H. and S. H. E. insists that signs should not be procured.)
WANTED.
A Summer-House in which two may sit when correcting stories. (Request of Mrs. Campbell.)
WANTED.
To- know who is responsible for my brother's visits to Richmond and why I never see him when here. (Signed Frank Louthan.)
456 RICHMOND COLLEGE MESSENGER
Miss B.-Noland, where are you and Mr. B. going this afternoon?
Mr. B.-To the Home for Incurables.
~H.-Yes, I think it's very appropriate for I have an incurable case (general laughter) of indigestion, I mean.
"I am simply disgusted," said Miss Barnes, "Dr. Metcalf is not going to leave any time for Tennyson and I am sick of Browning. Never did like anything of his except "The Barefoot Boy."
Miss Virginia S., after German-Brother, what does it mean when anyone says that his watch is in the wash? Dr. Stewart said that some German expression meant that your watch was in the wash.
Mr. S.-Do you mean "in soak?"
Miss S.-(resignedly)-Maybe I do.
Dr. Loving, hearing that Miss Coffee was undecided what she should do after this year, suggested house-keeping.
"Why? asked Miss C, innocently, "do you want a housekeeper?"
"Thank you," Dr. L. said promptly, "I already have one."
Miss Morrisette after some difficulty discovered where Poole's Index was kept, and was turning the pages of a dignified volume when Mr. X. asked meekly: "Miss M. didn't you ask for Poole's Index? You are looking in the City Directory."
Pres. B. states that in "Greater Richmond College" only A. M. work will be Co-Educational. Does he offer this as an inducement for advanced study?
RICHMOND COLLEGE MESSENGER 457
"Don't you think," said Mrs. Campbell, "that my hair looks a thousand times better this way?"
Miss Montague was silent for a moment and then said decidedly-
"No, Pearl, I don't; it takes a pretty face for those braids to be becoming to."
We of the Coronet fear thp-t according to Miss M's standard, our coiffures are very unbecoming.
Exchanges
C. L. Stillwell, Editor.
As this last issue of the "Messenger" goes to press there are impulses which tell us to be merciful. We wish it were possible to write only words of praise about our contemporaries, but to do so would be to betray the trust that is place in our sanity. As we take a backward glance at the various magazines that visit our desk, there is to be found in none of them perfection, while in most of them there is much that is absolutely worthless. To read some of these has been a pleasure, while it seems the others must have been forced upon us as punishment for some crime. We take this opportunity therefore, to point out in a general way, wherein they have displeased us.
Take, for example, the exchange department. We have learned-possibly we have been wrongly taught-that an exchange department is intended as an arena for criticism. Some of the exchange editors are satisfied with filling their space with clippings from other magazines-mostly jokes-which happen to please their eye. No one laughs over them (we hope) and certainly they are not a source of information or help. Again, it is impossible for an exchange editor to do justice to his victims, if he criticises more than one number in the space allowea' him. To say, "X is a readable story," or "We like the poem entitled, 'Why didn't the cows come home,' cannot possibly ~onvey to the author of that story or poem, any information as to its real merits and faults. Constructive criticism is needed more than destructive, and constructive criticism is not simply stating that an article is good. It would be well, then, to take
RICHMOND COLLEGE MESSENGER 459
at least one representative article in each magazine criticised and point out the main defects or virtues. College poetry, as a rule, is better than college fiction. Now and then, however, we receive a magazine that thinks poetry must be some kind of a gospel hymn in very crooked meter. In other cases, rhyme seems to be the panacea for all poetic ills. Poetry certainly is not prose broken up into a given number of syllables to a line. Poetry has a soul, and unless the author possesses the poetic spirit, there is no sense to the rhymes that comes from his pen. Tha ,t is, perhaps, the greatest fault of college poetry-lack of poetic spirit.
The stories suffer from two evils. There is, on one hand, a tendency to morbidness; on the other hand, an inclination to revel in sentimentality. We delight in a wholesome tragedy. Such is life. But we see no reason why an author has to kill a man by plucking little pieces of skin from his body, when he might as well kill him with a shot-gun. Yet, we would take this-almost anything-in preference to stories of "squshy love." Why must college students live in an atmosphere of sentimentality, as so many of their stories indicate?
A few more words, and our sermon is ended. We have not been satisfied with the essays that have come to our notice. We pick up a magazine and find an essay on the New South, or George Washington, and we are willing to take somebody else's words that it is a good article. So few of the college writers seek originality. We wonder that they are content to re-hearse the same old subjects that their sires and grand-sires threw away. "Originality," some one has said, "is the mark of a genius."
C. L. s.
The March number of The Furman Echo bulges with its usual abundance of printed matter, and affords strong testimony of the industry of the literary folk at Furman University. The essays are excellent, the stories not so attractive, and the poetry bad . On the first page the verse called "Life" paints a gloomy picture very badly and has but little life in it.
RICHMOND
COLLEGE MESSENGER
To one with a notion of devouring the whole magazine, this poem is not appetizing. It is false and artificial, we think, and after reading the easy, light essay by the same author, near the end of the magazine, called "Ratsie," and enjoying its rich vein of healthy good humor, we are inclined to think that this author himself did not believe what he said about life on the first page. "Ratsie" is the most readable thing in this number. "The Relation of the Literary Society to the College" is more solid and evinces thought and literary merit that places it ahead of anything else in the March Echo . "The Hem of a Garment," a miniature epic in rhyming couplets, telling how Jesus healed a leper, wastes valuable space, for there is no poetry in it. "The Death of a Slave," is less ambitious, being a ballad in negro dialect, and is much more attractive. The most creditable piece of fiction is "The Motto," a story which has something to tell, tells it, and stops. The action is rapid and straightforward, carrying the reader directly to a pleasing and artistic effect. A good contrast to this story is "The Transformation of Mr. Reynolds." There is much trite philosophizing, little action, and we have the inevitable result-no story. We are expected to grope through several dry pages, floundering occasionally over a sentence of amazingly bad construction, only to learn that "Bobby" Reynolds was an uninteresting old watch tinker, sadly in need of some kind of transformation. The casual reader is very prone to give up the task at this point, without caring whether the old man was ever transformed, but the critic must go on to the end. There he finds that the old codger had secretly amassed a fortune, and that a young lady happened to come his way. "Bobby" adopts this young lady as his daughter, and on the last page is transformed from a slow plodding, miserly old machine into a human being, or something of the kind. Indeed the need of metamorphosis and the metamorphosis itself are not made clear in the ten pages occupied by the story, and herein lies its weakness. The author's task is too great for his space. The reader is bound to doubt whether the strange couple lived happily ever afterwards, and it would take a novel about as long as Silas Marner to convince him.
W.B.
RICHMOND
COLLEGE MESSENGER 461
The Carolinian is certainly not representative of the standing of the University of South Carolina. This is to be deplored, for after all, a college is to be judged mainly by its intellectual and artistic productions. It is scarcely conceivable that the institution is unable ' to publish a more finished magazine than that which comes to our desk for April. It is doubtless not the fault of the editors, but due to the indifference of the students, for whatever may be said, a college magazine is largely what the students make it.
"The Salvation of Robert McNeal" is not a short story in the true sense of the word. It is merely a story that is short and we wished for something shorter before the dreary pages were perused. "The Salvation of Robert McNeal" has a fault common to nearly all college stories-verbosity After a remarkably good beginning, in which a gambler's den is cleverly described, we are taken on a long journey through Robert McNeal's life. · This is not only tedious but artificial. To drag the reader through six long pages of reflections on the past is intolerable. The moral significance of the story is too plain. It smacks strongly of the Sunday school paper.
"G . R. Aurum" is a fairly good story. The description of the haunted grounds although well done should not be crammed into the first three or four para g raphs. The climax is clearly handled and the interest is mainta'ined throughout.
The poetry is the best department in the magazine. The sonnet "Friendship" is perhaps one of the best of its kind that we have yet found in a college magazine. The true test of its artistic value is that it can be read again and again with strengthened interest. The line "'Tis like a crystal dew globe, dawn empearled, "is a striking piece of Shelleyan imagery. The greatest merit of "A Pastoral" is its spontaneity. "Many a Green Isle Needs Must Be" is good blank verse."
The Davidson College Magazine for March is interesting not alone for its merits but also its defects. The assortment of short stories, poems and essays makes it a well balanced magazme. I
462 RICHMOND COLLEGE MESSENGER
"A Night at Bell Grove" is mediocre college work. Two much time and space is wasted in the elaboration of details, words are used without the slightest regard for economy, and adjectives are not employed in the most effective manner.
"The Dual Victory" is the most sentimental and gushy story that we have seen in a college magazine for months. Fancy a love scene which begins with "Geraldine, dearest, I love you" and with "Why, Carl, this is all too sudden." This would be laughable if it were not deplorable. Such sentimental moonshine is to be strongly discouraged. The plot is trite and the story as a whole is poorly handled. The football game at the end is, of · course, thrilling, but we know what is coming and how it is going to turn out. The action of the story is slow, and hence, undesirable.
"Multiple Personality" has a rather worn plot, but the author makes some atonement by handling the story well. It is interesting but not unique, well told but not original. Little sense of tune climax is displayed, and somehow the author fails to weave together the various threads of the story as he should.
The essay "Chamber Building" is local in its interest, but is well written and instructive. "Comets" is a true essay and written with finish and spontaneity. The poetry is not up to the standard, but "To a Narcissus" shows a dainty poetic touch. We hope that the next monthly will show a decided improvement. Set the standard high and print the quality not quantity.
