THE MESSENGER
Subscription Price $1.00 Per Annum.
Entered at the Post Office at Richmond College, Va., as 2nd class matter.
VOL. XLV~ JANUARY 1920 No. 4
Richmond College Department
J. L. Lane, '20 ............. , .......................•..
H. R. Holland, 'l!O•.....•.••..•.••••••.•••.••...••.•.
Chas. F. Leek, '22 ..................................
W. R. Loving, '21. .....................•..
Editor-in-Chief
Assistant Editor
Business Manager
Assistant Business Manager
ASSOCIATE EDITORS
Mu Srgma Rho Philologian
S. P. Spratt
E. B. Willingham
V. C. Hargoves
A. B. Cook
w. M. Pettus
W. E, Hatcher, J~.
THE RICHMOND COi.:l;,E<JEM~BSENGER (follnded 1878'; named for the Southern Literary Messenger) is published on the first of each month from October to llay, inclusive, by the PHILOLOGIAN and MU SIGMA RHO Literary Societies, in conjunction with the students of Westhampton College. Its aim is to foster literary composition in the college, and contributions ,are solicited from all students, whether society members or not. A JOINT WRITER'S :M:EDAt, ·vklued at twenty-ff:ve dollars, will be given by the two societies to thil writer ot the best article appearing in THE MESSENGER during the year. All contributions should be hanaed to the department editors or the Editor-in-Chief by the fifteenth of the month preceding. ·Busi.n'elJSeotnmunications and subscriptions should be directed to the Business Manager and Assistant Business Manager, respectively.
Address-
THE MESSENGER, Richmond College, Va.
14 RICHMOND COLLEGE MESSENGER
EDITORIAL
Some one thing may hold the center of the stage in our experiences and thoughts, but it is seriously doubtful whether the past and present has or the future will furnish a more- consistent interest for our A Comparison mentalities than those relating to price and quality. Cheap and good may be two synonimous words and may be allowed to couple, but their combining with each other we permit with no semblance of chance. Only when these expressions appear as good quality for cheap price that they become most attractive. To say this is true concerning our literary magazine would be to assume an apparent egotistic attitude possibly and would be considered a "line" were it not for the absolute facts presented on the exchange table, at the entrance of the library, and a question often asked a highly esteemed and former educator of our college by students of a certain university. Ten different colleges and universities are represented on the exchange table, two of which charge $2, one $1.75, two $1.50, two $1, the other three not being rated, and yet students of one of the universities charging the top-notch price ask, '' How is it that you get out such a good magazine down there T'' The comparison is convincing, and the reason for it is that others have set the standard, while holding the standard is made possible by three factors : the advertiser, the printer and the students.
Elsewhere in this issue appear the names of thirty-six students, who in the fall 'term mounted the top rung of our scholastic ladder by earning term marks in As and Bs which represent grades above eighty-five. Our It is probably the finest record achieved by SchoZarshiip any student body for many sessions, of Record which we should feel justly proud, especially since campus life has become so diversified. We note the honor attached to this achieve-
ment and the atmosphere abroad among the students to be considered among the worthies, and consider very hopeful the outlook for even a better record in the winter period. This honor is undoubtedly one of the highest bestowed by the college, and only falls short of the Arachnidal to which it leads, if persistently pursued. We therefore commend the dean's interest in scholarship and congratulate those winning :this choice honor, and extend a hearty invitation to every student of our splendid college, to join the ranks of the most democratic body on the campus, whose portals swing wide for your entrance.
There are too many of us who become so much overwhelmed with college interests and activities until we lose sight of the visions of service and religious activity, which we had when we came to college. Shall it Die? The religious meetings of the college are well attended by the Freshmen in the early part of the year, but as the year passes and they get the indifferent spirit of their older brothers they, too, fall away. After we have been in college for two or three years we do not feel that keen enthusiastic joy of religious services which we had when we came here. This is evidenced in many respects. It is due mainly to the fact that the Y. M. C. A. and other religious organizations do not make themselves felt as worthy influences which command the respect and admiration of the student body. These organizations must lift themselves to heights in standards of Christian service, in examples of social culture, and in personal idealism which cannot be scorned by any. It seems that the spirit which was brought back by our delegates from the Des Moines Convention was saturated with that material which we need to keep alive on this campus. The message of the report which we heard was of that nature which appeals to our bigger, broader and more idealistic nature, and that which inspired all of us to accomplish better things.
Now the question for our religious organizations is just how to keep a fine spirit like this alive. We need this
16 RICHMOND COLLEGE MESSENGER
side of our college life emphasized more in the future. The situation lays a new and greater task before us as college men. The men in Flanders fields, where the poppies grow over their graves would not sleep unless their brothers would keep faith with them in securing the victory for which they died. We break faith with our better selves when we neglect to feed and stimulate the highest and best ideals which are within us, and there should be that atmosphere thrown about us which' would not permit our finer qualities to sleep. There are many men who would have served for the good of humanity if they had only had the necessary atmosph 'ere for calling into living life their good, but dormant , abilities and qualities. If we s__hallkeep the spirit of the Des Moines Convention alive in our college it may serve to stimulate and bring to active life the better and more serviMable qualities of out being.
5 A's.
f Ashton, D. C.
Ackley, E. L.
Duke, I. T.
Stockton, B.
4 A's AND 1 B.
Averett, L. S.
Bowles, S. H.
Bowman, S. T.
Clarke, A. B.
Garrison, C. W.
Gordon, J.B.
Rudd, A. B.
3 A's AND 1 B.
Briel, G. B.
Vaughn, W. A.
2 A's AND 4 B's.
Cooper, M. E. Pettus, W. M.
2 A's AND 3 B's.
Apperson, N. J.
Carlton, L. C.
Gray, E.W.
0 'Brien, R. A. Marsh, R. T.
2 A's AND 2 B's. i
Patterson, G. C.
1 A AND 5 B's.
Honts, A. B.
1 A AND 4 B's.
Bentley, Frank. Bolton, N. M. Guthrie, J. B. Held, E. C. Williams, T. L. Neale, C. L.
1 A AND 3 B's.
Thomas, G. T. Whitehorn, H. G. 5 B's.
Dunnaway, T. C. Hargroves, V. C. 4 B's.
Drinkard, R. D. Ransone, N. W. Smith, C. G.
18 RICHMOND COLLEGE MESSENGER
THE QUEST OF THE GINT-TINGS.
R. C. MOTTLEY, '21.
The morning bell chimed its melodious note through the purple, plush-curtained apartments of the harem. It was the hour for reoicing. Outside, in the Sultan's gardens, the flowers blushed and paled in the golden brightness of the sunshine, birds sang their love songs, and stately swans sailed slowly on the silver surface of th'e terraced lake, preening themselves in the cool breeze which diffused a most refreshing and invigorating tang to the entire scene-an atmosphere of life and love; keen, pure and joyous.
'' Anasha ! Where art thou?'' a heavy bass voice crescendoed the peaceful setting.
A dainty :figure, half concealed by a blossoming :figtree, slowly emerged at the call, hastily readjusting her harem veil (the Turkish custom) so her tear-reddened eyes and slightly pouting lips would not be so much in evidence as to bring forth remark. And---,:A_nasha's eyes and lips were entrancing, capable of much comment; favors from the former were worth a crown jewel, and favors from the latter-Allah'! the gods would forgive a man if he gave his life for them.
"Here, worshipful Sultan, is thy daughter," salaaming gracefully. Her words implied her love for her father, the tall, bearded owner of the bass voice. '' Hast good news been brought?"
"None," sympathetically, then slowly, "Rigliacci has gone. Whither? I know not. Why? Who knows? He is of good family-of pure cast blood. His heart is pulsing to be straight and clean. But his Latin blood from Italy-ah, sweet bereaved one, it pounds and races in his veins, and how may any heart be pure when its very life fluid is teeming with restlessness, passion, and desire?"
Taking his sobbing child gently in his arms he pressed her affectionately against his tunic and continued, softly. '' Rigliacci, your love, has gone far from you rather
than-well, he prefers to be at the other side of the earth rather than have you witness his yieldings to passion, his cravings for narcotics, or his yearnings for debauchery. The inborn sense of honor which he possesses would not allow him to look in the pure depths of your eyes and vow his love, when in his soul he knows he is spotted. May Allah grant him return as a man, but if not a man, may he never drink my caviar again!''
'' Amen!'' breathed Anasha, then with a woman's yearning, "but I love him so."
The girl slipped from her father's embrace and thoughtfully walked across the garden to her private boudoir. Her mind was busy. She was thinking as never before. Her sorrow was forgotten-everything was excluded from the intense concentration of her thought except one idea-to find and reclaim her soul-mate from himself. Her intuition prompted her that he was her man, the intended one, and Anasha was willing, and determined, to risk all for his restoration.
For a girl of twenty she was highly educated, nothing having been spared in her mental training. Up to this point, however, an opportunity for practical use of her enlightenment, besides her own joy in knowledge, had not presented itself.
As the Turkish maiden pondered with machine-like swiftness she recollected a secret formula given her on her seventeenth birthday by an ancient soothsaying dervish and magician. The little parchment paper was wrapped around two small pods resembling butterfly cocoons. His blessing was concise and almost gruff.
'' When romance is blighted, warm these cocoons, then follow the formula and Allah. '' ·
As a drowning man clutches at a straw Anasha seized upon this a ray of hope, and carefully unwrapped the two cocoons, placing them in the farm fetid air above an incense lamp.
While waiting results she, aided by her knowledge of chemistry, prepared the plastic liquid called for in •the formula.
20 RICHMOND COLLEGE MESSENGER
Two days later, after showing several indications of internal movement, the cocoons opened and two beautiful, small, golden "gint-tings" (as the formula named them) fluttered into the air, circled the room, then alighted on the girl's glossy, raven hair.
(A word about this new species of insect. The "ginttings" were gnat-like inJ structure, tiny, and of golden hue, but with capabilities of changing color, as the chameleon with which the reader is doubtless familiar. Through the medium of the dervish magic they could instinctly find any one wished for by their owner, providing the sought-for person to be in a one-half mile radius of the bugs. I say bugs, but undoubtedly it seems profane to relegate these wonderful insects to the common potato bug or "cooty" class. Therefore in justice to them and myself they shall hereafter be referred to as gint-tings.)
Anasha carefully removed them from her hair and put the gint-tings, utilizing the brown plastic mass of the formula for food, in a small, glass case, resembling a specimen box used by biologists.
Again she gave herself up to reflection. In Paris, while a student, she had become adept on the violin-something unusual for a Turkish woman. In fact, her technique was so good and her touch so wonderful, the music-master had implored her to appear in public. He prophesied great success and large enthusiastic audiences. But Sultan's daughter as she was, Anasha had not deigned to consider even his pleadings.
Knowing Rigliacci 's passionate love of the stage, and especially violin recitals, she felt that through the theatre and her violin she must bring herself near him. Her plan was to play in every large city of the world if necessary, and at the beginning of each performance release her gint-tings above the audience, at the same instant wishing hard with soul and body for Rigliacci. Other than these she had no plans, no idea of what might occur if the insects found him, but her faith in the Oriental occult was great and her determination to succeed was as adamant.
After much persuading, cajoling, even threatening, her father consented to her search, and with only one maidservant, a favorite of the harem, she went to Paris.
Her forr,ner music-master greeted her joyously and he readily, in fact, gladly, consented to serve her as manager; making her bookings and engagements, attending to all the business details of the enterprise ; transportation, apartments-everything necessary for the comfort of Anasha.
Intuitively, she believed her lover to be in the Americas, probably the United States, but her opening performance was in Paris.
As for her musical debut, it was a sensation-"le succes grande'' as the paper phrased it. This, however, was nothing more than she herself expected. Of course, the woman in her was gratified at the landings of the French, but her gint-tings had returned to her after the show and nothing had happened.
Her manager had her play London, Edinburgh, Madrid, and even Berlin, but no sign or tract of Rigliacci was obtained. The manager was secretly exulting over his prize artist, and gloating over the swelling proportions of his bank account, while she, thinking not of praise or gold, yearned with all the warmth and strength of her sunny nature for her mate.
Rio de Janeiro welcomed her, Valparaiso applauded softly, but with great feeling. New York gave her a tremendous ovation. Boston, Chicago, St. Louis, New Orleans, Salt Lake City, everywhere her success was unanimous, but she was not satisfied. The world might worship her, but her heart did not respond in accord. She wanted Rigliacci.
In early October, two nights before her intended departure for the South Sea Islands for the winter she played in San Francisco. The auditorium was packed and she almost felt that perchance on this last performance in America he would be found. She threw herself into her music, her very soul was bared to the breathless audience. As she ceased and the last note trembled and died the house rocked with encore upon encore. The
22 RICHMOND COLLEGE MESSENGER
stage was literally flooded with flowers-to such extent that Anasha feared for the safety of her precious ginttings.
However they returned safely to her, and with downcast eyes and almost broken spirit she was taxied to her apartment.
A caller awaited her. Extending his card, he said frankly, "I am of the City Relief Board. I want you to play tomorrow night in the slum district of 'Frisco. It borders Chinatown and the citizens of the section are hardened, leather-souled beings. I feel that if you play there as I heard you play tonight it would do more good for uplift than the entire police force. I cannot offer you money to play, but your reward may be more than material gain. Will you come?"
Anasha reflected. Why not f Money mattered not to her. She could make her steamer easily after the show. It would soothe her disappointment, because of failure in her search, to have helped some of her fell ow beings. Simply and quietly she extended her hand, ''Yes, I '11 be there.''
Twenty hours later she stood in the dirty wings of a once gilded cabaret stage. Through the peep-hole she discerned in the dimly lighted excuse for an auditorium a fairly well filled house-people: bleary-eyed, palsied with ''coke,'' leering from opium debauches, and exuding a stale beer scent, all of which to the dainty Anasha was almost nauseating.
Summoning her courage and feeling lost without an orchestra, she prepared to make her appearance. From habit her hand strayed unconsciously to the insect box. At the touch she started.
"Shall H" she pondered, "is it worth while this time¥ Who knows but that God will answer my prayers even in this hole, amongst the scum of the earth f ''
She pulled the slide, willing that Rigliacci come to her, and followed with her eyes the tiny, silently-moving ginttings into the wreeking air of the building.
Then bravely she stepped to the stage, faced the silent, grave, stolid, maudlin faces, staring at her with mummy-
like expression. Could she stir some awakening sense of right in the breasts of these stony subjects?
Closing her eyes the girl visualized Rigliacci and played to him, as if he were really listening to her. From the stretched cat-gut and the swan-gliding of the bow, she expressed her love for him, her faith iru the Omnipotent, and even the hopes of her life. Never was such music heard anywhere in 'Frisco.
As she reached the final Anasha felt that never could she play again unless she had her man. She wanted him, dissipated or strong; good or bad, her soul cried for him.
'' My career is end ed,'' she sighed softly as the bow made its last stroke. Unconsciously she looked for applause from her hearers. When it did not come she glanced at them curiously. Not an expression had changed. All eyes were glistening with tears and a grim twist of the mouth bespoke strong emotion battling for relief. One head was bowed forward.
Her gint-tings had not returned, and as she waited for them the red-eyed congregation dispersed. Still she waited, her maid holding her street wraps. The highly-prized gint-tings did not come.
Going to the peep her eyes searched the empty room. About half-way back, just underneath the gallery, sat the man with the bowed head-alone, silent. Calling her maid, Anasha hurried across the orchestra pit and up the aisle to see if assistance for the man was necessary.
As she approached from the side row she caught a glimpse of the profile of the bowed face. She clutched her bosom, she grasped a seat for support. Could it be T Was she awake 1 For there, in the flesh, was Rigliacci ! Unconscious, it was true, but breathing deeply.
Embracing his form lovingly and tenderly Anasha sent the maid to the office where she immediately called an ambulance on the spot.
Anasha sat in the ambulance holding his head all the way to the hospital. Rigliacci 's eyelids at intervals would flutter half open, then close. On each side of his neck was a tiny red spot. Scrutinizing them closely the girl dis-
24 RICHMOND COLLEGE MESSENGER
covered in each a small, golden stinger, undoubtedly from her gint-tings.
She removed these, dropping them through the window of the moving vehicle.
At the hospital the best physicians of the city were in attendance, and-of the rest you may judge from the following report of the physicians concerning Rigliacci 's unusual case. The original report is framed and hung in the library of a beautiful Americanized villa in Anasha's fatherland-Hindustan. She and Rigliacci sometimes stand before the report and with many fond glances they read the medical men's interpretation of the wonderful recovery of Rigliacci. Let us follow_them:
'' 'The case of Rigliacci, a Turk fused with Italian blood, was the most remarkable ever brought before our attention. When he entered the hospital he was saturated with rum, opium-crazed, and an inveterate "coke" snuff er. These facts we gleaned from a blood test. He was, under ordinary conditions, incurable-a wreck physically and mentally. It would have taken at least five years of grinding will power and the best medicine of the country to affect a cure for him.
The phenomenon of his case is that within three weeks after his entrance here, he was dismissed by us, strong, virile, healthy, with all craving and desire for narcotics, intoxicants, and dissipation in general eliminated from his make-up and system.
While we would like much to take the credit for his speedy recovery, it must be said that the case bordered on the supernatural, past human comprehension.
An unaccountable but minor point, is that Rigliacci during the three weeks of convalescence retained a red spot, resembling a bee sting, on either side of his neck.' ''
Signed · ..................... .
(By six leading physicians of San Francisco.)
As they finish reading this they glance directly above the report to a small golden frame encircling this inscription: 'l'O THE MEMORY OF OUR BELOVED GINT-TINGS.
RIDING PF;_GASUS WITH SPURS.
V. X. HARGROVES, '22.
It may be well to state in the beginning that Pegasus is a horse. Furthermore it might not be amiss to proclaim that this said quadruped is a winged horse, the son or daughter, as the case may be-personally I do not know which-of a certain Posideon and Medusa. Now ancestors as a rule have a small share in the fame of any progeny, who may by chance or otherwise achieve distinetion. This case is by no means an exception to the rule, save only in so far as Posideon and Medusa are due some credit and degree of prominence as being the parents of such a remarkable combination of abilities, as a flying horse. How Pegasus came to be possessed of such an enviable talent, namely that of flying through the lighter regions of the earth, I do not know, but at any rate it saffers to be a fact, and thereby hangs the basis of this concoction. ·
Now i:lie ability to retain one's equilibrium upon a hors e, even when he confines the scope of his activity to the earth, is not a simple matter-to a novice. And when a person deems himself of such equestrianship as to attempt to restrain a spirited steed, accustomed to cruise among the clouds, then it is a sight to be wondered at. But when such a master goes beyond all reason and applies spurs to this animal as an inspiration to accele ration, then it is something to be wond er ed a t. N evertheless this is likewise a fact and thereby hangs another item of this story.
There is as you know in every college curriculum a cou rs e known by the unsp eakable name of Latin. A cour s e as distasteful to the pur suants of it as jazz mu sic t o the ears of a dog, and as abhorred a s it is possible for any one subject to be, namely to the nth degree of dislike. So when a student from nece s sity decides to subject himself to its tortures, it is you may be sure, with many misgivings and apprehensions. And it is a result of this anxiety that suggests fair means or foul to a succ es sful
26 RICHMOND COLLEGE MESSENGER
flight through such a despicable course. By the intimation of "foul means" I in no wise infer that all servants if this fearful study degrade themselves to the extent of having to employ various and sundry methods to complete the flight. ..t1'arbe it from me to suggest such a thing. For my reference is to the "common herd," the brilliants excluded, who labor under the difficulties imposed by those und es ervedly noted bards : Horace, Virgil, etc.
There are some streams that cannot be crossed on foot and it is necessary to revert to the use of some other method of transportation. Quite often it is possible to ford such inconveniences on horseback, and many times it has been done. On the other hand the obstacle may be a river unbridled by a bridge or unchecked by a boat. In such a case the only means of accomplishment is the air and then only a flying horse will suffice.
To no less a degree there are streams and passages in Latin that prove as substantial a:barrier to the wayfarer as any river. There are mountains of literary matter as incomprehensible and inaccessable as Olympia of Ancient Greece. What then can suffice1 Only a "pony" sometimes equipped with wings. As I said before, Pegasus is the only known horse having the ability to fly. It is the only one known to be possessed of that exalted power which permits him to surmount the highest mountains and sail serenely among the fluffy clouds of the ephemeral dome. And still it is also a known fact that the '' common herd'' can only surmount its Latin difficulties by the use of a "pony" with wings. It appears then on the face of the matter quite evident that Pergasus must be this remarkable and all essential horse.
Such undoubtedly is the case. The "herd," whose ignorance is bliss, believes · 'tis folly to be wise, when obliging Pegasus will bear them safely over the tide of Latin. But you may ask-how does it (the herd) do iU How does it maintain its equilibrium among such dizzy heights? And how does it work when Pegasus is spurred to the limit and traveling amon,g the higher regions with
the spectacled prof and sage little the wiser 1 It is hard to say "how," but it usually does, and Pegasus is still being ridden, urged on and on by the spurs of diligent application to his keys of knowledge.
But what of the exceptions that tread the straight and narrow way of industry that leads through valleys and through mountains, through hardships and despair f What of them f They usually get there too. Now you say-what is the di:fference if both get there f Franklyn, there is not a gre .at deal of difference. Of course the latter class gets the finer points, while the mass is sailing in ignorance among the clouds. But there is not a great distinction. Both are satisfied. The exceptions are thankful for their own prowess while the mass agrees to give eternal praise to Posiden and Medusa for such a marvel in Pegasus, the winged horse, who has borne them safely among the unstudious realms above the mountains that beset the road to Latin.
28 RICHMOND COLLEGE MESSENGER
FRIENDS.
R. E. GARST, '22.
Friends come, friends go, and we are ever left behind ; They seem to flit from out our lives; yet somehow, Somewhere, we '11 meet them all again; and then, as now,
Old warmth of heart will be revived, and peace of mind. 'Tis hard to see the tide come in for them, yet pass us by And leave us stranded on Life's beach; our friends go on,
But we cannot. They go to meet the world and hardly one
Fails in his mission. We wait its coming and wonder why
It tarries. We sadly learn that seldom does it overrun Its channel to carve a new one to our lonely door. Grown contented with our lot we scale the heights no more,
And seek by low and obscure ways our places in the sun. Though outstripped by all that started and gone beyond our ken, Take comfort in this thought: that while no flag of fame unfurled
For us; yet in that mystic land beyond this work-day world
We'll meet them face to face once more and all be friends again.
THE CASE~OF THE GHOST.
R. G;.GARST, '22.
Some months ago my friend, Billy Parsons, asked me if I believed in ghosts.
"No," I answered very readily, "I don't. I've never seen a ghost and I never expect to see one.''
"But," objected Billy, "how do you explain the fact that so many sensible people tell about seeing ghosts and visions as though there really were such things. Certainly they wouldn't tell such incredible tales if they didn't have some foundation for them."
"No, I don't think they would. No doubt they believe in ghosts themselves. My theory is that people see things only when their minds are in such a receptive and expectant state that they can't help but have some sort of a vision, when any one hears a story of a haunted room that is said to be frequently visited by a ghost and he undertakes to sleep in that room alone some night, it is safe to say that he is going 'to see a ghost whether there actually was one or not. So I say it depends on the state of mind whether one sees ghosts or not. .But I .don't think there are such things myself f
I actually believed what I had told Billy. I didn't believe in ghosts then, but.I've changed my hind since . .That is .my story .
.It was late one cool .afternoon in the mountains when we drew up at the gate of old Morton Saunders' farm. The sun was sinking redly behind the blue line of mountains and a pale crescent of moon was already up. The sun's level rays tinted the whole valley with a soft red glow that made even the rude evidences of man's presence beautiful for the passing moment. They brought into relief the rough, corrugated sides of the mountains; coloring one side of the canyons with a soft tint of red, leaving the other shadowed, and giving the impression of an endless line of waves, with painted crests, stretching away into the distance. 'Then the sun was gone. The valley floor was instantly gray and colorless and the
30 RICHMOND COLLEGE MESSENGER
mountains appeared smooth again, shrouded in a cool misty blue veil. The air seemed suddenly to grow cooler and the light faded fast, for dusk is short-lived in the hills.
We were welcomed with true hospitality at the house. One of the boys took our horses to the barn and we were soon settled comfortably before a crackling fire in the front room. Presently old Morton Saunders came in and shook hands with us heartily, although he had never seen us before. We knew him by hearsay, however, because he was a character in that part of the country. Big, slightly inclined to fatness, with a shock of iron gray hair and long bedraggled mustache, a ruddy stern face, but withal, humorous, he fitted exactly what my conception of the old patriarch had been.
He had lived in this valley all his life and his father and his grandfather had lived here before him. Part of the house had been built by his grandfather and additions had been made as necessity and the changing times had demanded. The rear of the house was still the same old log cabin built years before, but the front was more modern in structure. The old man was known as a mighty hunter in his time, a hard player and a good loser. He still took delight in the old-fashioned dances, and his home was frequently the scene of revels that are not known outside the hills. His gnarled and work-hardened hands could still grasp a fiddle, and his bow charm young feet to dance with "Soldier's Joy" and other with the good old-fashioned swing.
The old man was quite garrulous and told, unasked, of the valley news, of hunting, of log-rolling, of dancing. Births, deaths and marriages were told in due order and the personal affairs of people from one end of the creek to the other became our common property. Before long conversation languished and we sat looking into the glowing heart of the fire, each thinking his own thoughts or dreaming his own dreams.
We were interrupted by a call to supper and we went out to one of the rooms belonging to the original cabin.
No preliminaries preceded the meal. '' Take out'' said old Morton briefly, and we fell to with zest to such a meal as a city man seldom is fortunate enough to sit down to. After the supper we went back to the fire and were regaled by stories of his younger days until bedtime. He was a consumate story teller and we were well entertained, although some of his tales we were forced to swallow with a grain of salt.
The room to which our host showed me was one of the rooms of the old cabin. It was at the rear of the house, with one room between it and the kitchen, and faced the south. It had three doors, two opening into adjoining rooms and the other opening to the outside. At a casual glance I noticed that it seemed to be a door little used for a picture had been hung from a nail in the casing so that part of the fame hung across the door. Two large windows likewise were cut in the south wall.
"If anything disturbs you, me and your friend'll be in the next room,'' said old Morton as he was going out. '' Good night.''
''Good night,'' I returned. His remark meant to me nothing more than a natural interest in my comfort. I undressed, put out the light and walked to one of the windows.
It was one of those night when the world is lighted by the stars alone. The moon was but a pale crescent already on its downward course to the mountains. With the light out it was still almost as light as day in the room, and I could make out objects distinctly. Tired though I was I was still strangely reluctant to go to bed ; so I stood at the window drinking in the beauty of the mountain night. At last, finding no further pretext for staying up longer I stretched out on the bed and prepared to go to sleep.
The bed was almost directly opposite that closed door with the foot toward it. Over the low foot I could see its every detail. It was a heavy door built in a time when protection was necessary. Great notched blocks were attached to it ready to receive the massive wooden bar to
32 RICHMOND COLLEGE MESSENGER
reinforce the latch. For the old-fashioned latch was still there, and a latch string, as I could dimly make out. But I simply could not go to sleep. I could hear a clock ticking loudly in the next room and a gentle snore from old Morton's ,room gave evidence that he or my traveling companion was lost to the world. · Other noises there were none that I could hear. Accustomed to the clang of cars and rush of a city street the quiet of the hills pressed uncomfortably on iny consciousness. Still I heard nothing but the regular ticking of the clock and the snoring in the next room.
I lost all account of time. It seemed as though I had lain there for eternities and minutes seemed like hours. I still lay staring :fixedly at that door. Gradually the room seemed to grow a little brighter and I noticed in the door, just above the latch a crack about an inch wide and stretching up about a foot. I had not seen this before, possibly because of the dark background outside, but now the sinking moon-crescent outlined it sharply. I could see, too, the outside end of the latch string hanging down. It was not the usual buckskin latch string, nor was it an ordinary string. It was a string of two colors, red and white, twisted together, similar to the strings we sometimes see on candy boxes. This was strange in itself to be able to recognize colors in such a light and at such a distance. I remarked the strangeness of it then, but it was not impressed on my mind. I was certain I waf'!not asleep and yet there was a sense of a lack of time and a freeness from the confines of body that was unusual with me.
All at once it seemed ·as though a veil had been passed between me and the moon. I looked at the ·crack :fixedly. Slowly a hand, or at least the shape of a hand appeared before the crack and the longest, whitest :fingers I have ever seen closed around the red and white latch string. I could see nothing .else ; not even all of the hand. But the bar did not move. Then a white :figure melted gradually through the very door. Dim at :first, but the outline growing stronger until the spectre stood inside. Wrapped
in a white robe from head to foot, no part of its body showing except one of its hands, the left, and its eyes. Those awful, blazing eyes. From the moment my eyes met its mine left them only for a moment until the ghost had disappeared. Black as the blackest night and yet sparkling cold and cruel, it seemed as from some inward fire, those points of light held mine fascinated. As some coiled snake hypnotizes and holds a fluttering bird with i ts beady glittering eyes, so this intruder held me spellbound and helpless. Yet I had no feeling of fear. My mind worked normally and I had no desire to cry out. And still the spectre stayed motionless.
I discovered suddenly that it had moved, without my knowing it. I had seen no forward/ motion, yet it was half way between the bed and the door now. I watched more closely. There seemed to be no movement, yet it g rew larger. · It was coming toward me. My eyes still clung unwillingly to its and slowly, oh so slowly, it was coming nearer. It was at the foot of the bed now. Before it had been coming straight toward me from the door. Now it must turn slightly to the side t.o come around the foot of the bed. Its eyes never left me, yet I could see its shape move as it passed parallel to me for the moment. A gliding movement, steady, yet so slow as to be scarcely discernible. Surely this was an unusually sedate ghost for I had heard they were quite lively. But no time for idle conjectures. It was at my very side now, not two feet between us. I was looking up into those horrible eyes still. Its left arm was slightly extended toward me, but its right was hidden. I had an uneasy presentiment that something was going to happen and that right speedily.
Then, suddenly, more startling because of its unexpectedness, the ghost took a short quick step forward, its right arm appeared, raised high above my unprotected body. In it gleamed a long shining kniife. Slowly it d escended half way and stopped. I could sense the tensing of the spirit for the final blow. Its eyes were blazing in an a wful manner now, unquenchabl e hatred seemed to
34 RICHMOND COLLEGE MESSENGER
emanate from them. By a stupendous effort of will I managed to wrench my eyes from its and fastened upon the knife.
I think it was the most beautiful knife I have ever seen. It was in truth a dagger, long, pointed, seemingly of solid silver. It must have been wrought by a master silversmith for its cunrui.ngworkmanship , was wonderful. The design was an oak leaf running down the shining blade for a few inches and ending. I could not see the haft for the ghastly hand that grasped it, but the end was a carven acorn. The carving was deep, clear, graceful. It stood out cameo-like from the gleaming metal of the knife. I have never seen its like, but should I do so I would recognize it instantly.
As I watched, the point began to move again. Swiftly it descended until only a few inches from my breast. My eyes left the knift and sought the eyes of the spectre. There had been a subtle change in them. Still burning there was now no fierceness left, nor cruelty. They seemed impotent and unwilling as though restrained by some power greater than its own. Perhaps its dark master was calling it back, back to the fiery regions whence spirits are said to come. I could hear the loud ticking of the clock in the next room and old Morton's snore was no longer gentle. The hand with the knife was being withdrawn and the shape of the spirit straightened. My eyes, weary with the prolonged and steady staring blinked for an instant. The ghost was gone. The last tip of the crescent moon disappeared below the crack in the door, the clock ticked on, the sleepers stirred restlessly and a bed cracked. My eyes closed and I knew no more until morning.
As soon as I was out of bed I examined the old door. Sure enough there was the crack anad the latch string, red and white, as I had seen them under different circumstances a few short hours ago.
The first thing our host asked me was, '' Did you sleep all right?"
''Not very well,'' I answered.
'' Did anything bother you V'' 'he went on.
"Yes," said I, "I saw a ghost." Then I proceeded to tell him all that had happened.
He nodded his head affirmatively when I was done.
'' Some people,'' he said, ''don't believe in ghosts, but there certainly is one here. Thirteen years ago last night a stranger came here and asked for shelter for the night. I gave it to him. The next morning he was dead in the very bed you slept in, murdered. The murderer was caught afterward and hanged. I saw him at the trial and found nothing unusual about him but his eyes. He had the most awful, blazing black eyes that I have ever seen in my life. I slept in that room myself one night a year after it happened and I saw the very thing you did. I haven't slept there since. But not believe in ghosts! It's not in human nature not to believe after seeing that.''
And that is the story of why I changed my mind about ghosts. I will never believe that I was asleep nor that it was a dream. It was too real. Now was my mind filled with ghost stories for I knew nothing about the story that I had just been told. Besides old Morton had seen it, and despite the fact that I knew he sometimes stretched the truth I don't think he was lying about it. Should my friend, Billy Parsons, again ask me if I believe in ghosts I would say:
"Frankly, Billy, I do not know."
36 RICHMOND COLLEGE MESSENGER
LINES.
V. C. IiARGROVES, '22.
Surely, steady, onward to the great divide I go, Slow in spring, but swift in autumn, like the leaves before the snow
Fall like magic to the victor and his cold unfettered hand, While it leaves the earth all barren-now a dead and dying land;
Never ceasing in its swiftness, like the winds that shroud the North,
Time carries on its project, while death visits every hearth.
Ah once, I now remember, though the years have borne it far,
That I was young and youthful as the present youthfuls are;
Though time in quickening journey bore my youth in tears away,
Though the years that passed dare many and they traveled in dismay,
Yet I stop and think with wonder and it seems but yesterday,
That my youth and I were partners on life's densely traveled way.
Ah ye know how quick it fleeth on its journey to the West, And ye know how long man stayeth till he goes unto his rest;
Ah ye know the time of testing varies much in every man, And some have more years than others ere before their life does wan ;
But alas too late ye :find it that your race is nearly run, That your star is growing dimmer while now se'tting is your sun;
Then ye make a feeble effort to efface the darkened past, But too late, your effort faileth, then the future reaps your cast.
Westhampton College Department
Editor
Assistant Editor.
Business Manager
Assistant Business :Manager. .......................... Stella Hubbard
EDITORIAL
Nineteen-twenty! How new and strange the very calling of the year sounds after having said nineteen-nineteen for twelve whole months. As yet 1920 is new and strange and still it lies within the Ni.neteen-Twenty power of every individual, in his heart, mind, soul and body, to make 1920 the year that will count most for him, and will be the greatest benefit to his fellow-man, so that in years to come when he is saying nineteen-thirty, nineteen-fortyfive, and even nineteen-fifty, he may look back to 1920 as the fullest year and the most familiar year in his life. Each one starts with a blank diary, so to speak, before him, and he and he alone will be responsible for what will be written therein. At the end of the year when he takes inventory of his thoughts and actions, he will have only to read the pages of his diary and see what good or evil he has wrought each day. The number of checks that he may put by the days and say to himself, ''That was a red-letter day," depends entirely upon himself. We, as college men and women, should have and will be expected to have more red-letter days than those of our fell ow comrades who have not had the opportunities and advantages that we have had. Ours also is the task of showing others how they may increase the number of red-letter days they are to have in their diary and to help them put those days there indelibly.
During this, the first month of the new year, it would be well for every one to take account of himself, note his shortcomings in every detail and resolve to overcome
40 RICHMOND COLLEGE MESSENGER
these by right doing and living, spiri.'tually, socially, intellectually and physically. Let him determine that 1920 shall have more red-letter days than any year preceding.
Often perhaps you have heard people say that college students do not keep up with the times, that they are so busy poring over history of centuries ago that they do College Students and Current Problems not take the time to read the newspapers and other periodicals and note what is going on at the present time. In some cases this is true, but the majority of students can not be in college long before they realize that they must know the current thought and problems even though it results in a partial neg-lect of assigned lessons. They soon learn to know that there are other "lessons" besides those assigned from day to day. We hope that this opinion that some people hold will be altered when they read the res'Ults of the vote which will be taken in all the colleges and universities in the United States on January 13, in regard to the approval of or opposition to the league of nations. To say the least, the very fact that college men, many of whom have not attained voting age, and college women, many of whom could not vote, in Virginia at any rate, though of age, have been asked to express their opinions Oili a question so universally and vitally important, proves that in the minds of a great and influential class of men college students are keenly aware of present existing conditions and are able to vote candidly and intellectually on national current problems.
RICHMOND COLLEGE MESSENGER
· AT TWILIGHT.
BERNICE E. WHITLOCK.
Into a cool and mossy dell
Away from the haunts of men, Where the birch trees toss their heads in the breeze And the aspens tremble and bend.
Where the sunlight steals its way through the leaves, Or the moonbeams dance and play, Where the babbling brook flows merrily on To join the ocean some day.
Where the song birds sing with the soft, clear note That forever has been their own, I left the world with its paths of sin, And wended my way alone.
What a feeling of peace emmersed my soul As I entered that sylean bower! What wonders of God lay there revealed, In their glory in that twilight hour!
But close by the trunk of an ancient oak, That had weathered the storms of years, A crocus was born to live alone Till bathed in a maiden's tears.
'Twas only a flower, frail and sweet, But so spotless and so white, That it knew not of the snares of the world Till I entered its life that night.
Perhaps some power had opened my eyes, For I saw it in all its grace, And I fell to the ground with a cry of pain, And covered it with my face.
42 RICHMOND COLLEGE MESSENGER
''Ah! Father in Heaven, come now to my aid, Look mercifully down upon me, And point out the paths of the Truth and the Right, That I may live closer to Thee.
And make me a woman as pure and as clean As the dewdrops sent down from above, As this crocus Thou placed her to save me from sin That I may be worthy of Love."
THE BANE OF MY EXISTENCE.
VIRGINIA KENT, '23.
Nearly all of us entertain some prejudice against certain things, and some of us go so far as to be even prejudiced against our fell ow mortals. This is purely human nature, and will have to be overlooked, although rt is a characteristic not to be desired and cultivated. Occasionally some one may be found who is at peace with the world and all that is in it, but this type is exfremely rare. I once heard of some one who was so satisfied with everything that he grew dissatisfied with being so contented. I believe that is possible.
For my part I must confess to a great animosity I cherish toward alarm clocks, collectively and individually, and especially to my own. I cannot help it; it seems 1x> be instilled in me; and yet, it would be impossible for me to go through one day without the aid of one, as I would not even wake up to commence the day. Any how, I have ample reason to believe that I am not alone in my sentiments regarding them, as I have never heard or read any poem lauding their virtues, or any ode dedicated to their memory. The beloved old grandfather's clock, the cuckoo clock, and numerous other time pieces have often been the subjeci of illustrious poets and writers, but the alarm clock has never enjoyed that distinction. The very word ''alarm'' sounds harsh and grating to one's ears. This particular specimen of clock is not respected as its more genteel brothers are.
The alarm clock came into being sometime during the nineteenth century, the beginning of that flourishing age of clocks and watches. Without investigating further into its pedigree and ancestral history, it suffices us to say that some one, whom I shall never be able to respect, invented it. Though crude at first, it has come down to us in that state of perfection, that its tick far excels that of the old grandfather's clock on the stair in sound, and, as for the gong-the strike of the largest and loudest clocks would be drowned under the volume of sound issu-
44 RICHMOND COLLEGE MESSENGER
ing from the metallic throat of even a small sized one. Nevertheless, there are some who appreciate the value of an alarm-clock; in fact, long before it was invented, there was a great desire for an artificial means of awaking. Dr. Johnson tells us that the learned Mrs. Carter was so anxious to study that she even begrudged herself that blessed time spent in sleep, so fitly referred to as '' great Nature's second course and the chief nourisher in life's feast." In order to arise earlier, she invented a sort of contrivance that, at a certain time, the light in her room would burn a striTug to which was attached a heavy weight. When the string burned in two, the weight would fall with a sudden noise, and she would spring up elated that she could now begin her studies again. In a way, she is to be looked up to, but yet I cannot help agreeing with Puck when he said "What fools these mortals be!''
I suppose we are all acquainted with the story of the little boy, who, wishiTugto arise early in order to slip out and go fishing before the resit of the family awoke, tied a string around his big toe letting the other end of the cord hang out of the window, so that his pal, who was an early riser, could pull it gently and thereby awaken him the next morning. However, instead of mildly giving the string a fog or two as prearranged, his friend fastened the end of it about the neck of his goat. The goat, catching sight of one of his old enemies across the street, suddenly dashed off, nearly dragging the little boy out of bed and through the window. A calamity was only averted, however, by the breaking of the string. As it was, the little boy suffered a dislocated toe, all because of his desire to awake sooner than nature intended he should. This was quite a brutal method of being aroused, buit, after all, it cannot be much worse than being torn from one's peaceful slumbers by the too faithful alarm clock, that murderer of innocent sleep. Macbeth, himself, stands far higher in my estimation than that terrible monster, the bugbear of my existence, the horror of my first awaking momen.ts-my alarm-clock. Macbcih was
considerate enough to murder only his own sleep, while the above mentioned detestable object is sufficiently base to murder, yea, even mangle, the slumber of others!
Still there are many people who are fortunate enough not to be harassed each morning by an alarm-clock. Those who can thus wake up rut any time they wish are talented in a way. I cannot help but marvel at this eminent ability of awaking that they possess. I remember to have awakened once before my alarm-clock rang. I never found out why I did, and have often pondered over this strange phenomenon. I was so flustrated by H that I celebrated by straightway going back to sleep, forgetting to turn off the alarm. What was my surprise when, a few minutes later, I was startled by its furious ring!
And so, day after day, I battle with my alarm-clock. I come home tired and weary, worn out by the cares and worries of a trying day. At length I seek repose, IiiCe "One who wraps the draperies of his couch about him and lies down to pleasant dreams." However, the "pleasant dreams" are no\t for lo'ng. Suddenly the thought occurs to me that. I did not wind up and set my alarm-elock, and tomorrow I must get up early. Out I get on the cold floor and grope my way hurriedly across the room to where I last remembered seeing it. The cold night air from the open window nearly freezes me, but I force myself on. Where did I leave that clock 1 Ouch! I stump my toe against a table piled with books. Several fall to the floor with a mighty crash. I wonder desperately wheth er anything else could happen. Finally I locate the object of my search and grab it viciously, at the same time uttering a thousand maledictions upon its head. This relieves ihe pain in my toe considerably. I pick my way back to the bed without further mishap, wind and set the clock, placing it on the floor near me, and get into bed ag ain. Th en Big Ben comm enc e s and mak es up for lost time. Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock; loud, brazen, nerver a ckin g ly monotonous, it hurries on and on. It never sound s as lou d in the day as at n ight. T ortur ed by its
46 RICHMOND COLLEGE MESSENGER
incessant clamor I toss and roll, finally dropping off to sleep with it still ringing in my ears.
All at once something terrible happens. I cannot describe the feeling that comes over me, as suddenly awakened jump up in bed, terror-sfricken by a horrible something I cannot locate. I gather my stricken senses. 0 Shades of Hades! it is the alarm-clock. And all the while it rings frantically. Driven to sheer desperation I madly clutch the fearful object and strive in vain to stop its clamorous voice, as it shrilly protests, seeming to shriek out at the top of its brazen lungs ever the same words, '' Get up! Get up! GET UP!! Oh, how it must despise the lier-in-bed! If it only knew to what immeasurable and boundless extent it was detested by the true worshiper of Somnus ! After much struggling I, at last, manage to turn off the alarm. Instantly a great hush falls over the room; such a stillness that I wonder if all the noise of a moment ago was only a dream-a nightmare. Perhaps the reason for this seemingly great quiet is that it occurs directly after so much noise. Peace at last I The enemy is vanquished. I heard; I fought; I conquered. With a feeling of uttermost relief I push the alarm-clock from me, and unable to resist the soothing call of Morpheus, gentlest of the gods, tranquilizer of minds, and soother of care-worn hearts, I drop back upon my pillow again.
'' I did my best,'' ticks the subdued clock reprovingly. '' I did my best. I did my best.''
The remonstrant tone of my alarm clock and my conscience urge me to arise, but find it impossible. I seem chained by the side of the River Lethe with garlands of poppies and other herbs, from whose juices night collects the charms with which she weaves the slumbers that she scatters over 'the darkened world. How quickly the night has flown; indeed, it appears quite dark yet. I start suddenly as this thought occurs to me and glance at the disturber of my dreams suspiciously. Can it beit is possible that it might have rung before my accustomed hour of arising? No, the hands point accusingly
to :fiveminutes after seven. The hour has already passed, and time is flying. I must get up. By exerting almost superhuman will-power, I manage to crawl out of my warm bed to the freezing floor, and as I dress I gaze at my alarm-clock ruefully and murmur with apologies to Coleridge:
'' 0 Sleep ! it is a gentle thing, Beloved by one and all.
How can you, cruel, heartless wretch, Disturb it with your bawl T''
48 RICHMOND COLLEGE MESSENGER
THE RAT TRAP.
ELISE DAVIS, '23.
The Rat President's speech seemed to have met with great approval. A low buzz of conversation spread over . the smoke fiilled room, and hilarious ' 'Amens'' ! and "You're right brother," came from sundry groups of Freshmen. For you must know the very important question of the Rat Banquet was under discussion, and the President was waxing eloquent.
"Now gentlemen, fellow students, and fraternity brothers,'' he concluded, making elaborate bows to three separate imaginary bodies, "it's up to you, and I shall expect each man to do his duty.'' And as a parting shot he added, "Don't let our Westhampton sisters be disappointed in us.'' The shot went home and settled itself comfortably in a very uncomfortable person. Jack Everett always was uncomfortable when his conscience hurt him, and he had been taken suddenly with a very acute attack of conscientitis. He didn't leave with the usual crowd, but stalked off by himself, cap far down over his fac e, hands deep, in pockets as a man in meditation.
'' Of course, I '11have to take one,'' he mused out loud, "or the fellows won't think I'm a sport. Well, if I do, I'll-I'll go or-bust," he added very unbecoming to his Freshman dignity. '' They shall not keep me away.''
"Well, now that sounds interes ·ting," remarked a strange voice at his elbow. Everett jumped and turned to find one of the irritating '' Theys,'' namely a sophisticated Sophomore smiling knowingly at him. '' Aw, go on Byrne, have a smoke,'' Everett muttered. Byrne thanked him profusely and murmuring something about an important enga ge ment, excused himself. Vexed beyond measure at being overhead by the Soph, Everett turned and hurried over to Thomas Hall.
That night when the hall was comparatively quiet and seemingly rid of mischief makers, Everett stole stealthily down to th e bulletin board and gazed distractedly upon a long list of feminine names. '' How on earth should h e
know which one to take? "Rose"-that sounded too much like a flower. "Maude"-he didn't like that because once he went to school with a girl named Maude, "etc. "-on down the list, scowling off first one then another until the very last one. ' ' Sarah,'' '' well that was it, his very own mother was named Sarah, and wasn't she the sweetest woman in the world¥" So "Sarah" it must be. Again he crept stealthily back to his room, and there ensued the most trying hour of his whole life. The room presented an appearance of general confusion, from the paper strewn table to his tousled head. His coat draped the dresser and his collar and tie hung tipsily over his study lamp. He wrote laboriously. Should it be '' Dear Miss'' or '' My dear Miss''¥ He would consult his grammar. In the act of doing so he upset the ink.
After five or six attempts and much spilling of paper and ink the note was written politely requesting the pleasure of accompanying Miss Sarah ............ to the Rat Banquet. Everett looked at his watch and yawned sleepily. It was quarter to twelve. That night he dreamed that a host of Sophomores came after him. They had beautiful golden hair and carried long paddles and all said their name was Sarah.
It was the eventful day. The sun was setting slowly behind the hazy blue pines, sending a splendor of color over the fleecy sky unequalled by those of the richest paintings. Everett was hurrying home from "Lab." There was much to be done before nine o'clock. He stopped short by a clump of shrubbery. Some one was talking and about him. He recognized the voice and flushed angrily. Byrne was speaking. '' That doesn't make any difference if he is larger than you Bob, why he is just naturally scared to death. All you have to do is just gag him and we will get him through the window. Come on, surely you are not afraid of that little rustic.'' Everett waited to hear no more. He almost laughed out loud. "Why Bob Wakefield, ha! ha! he could turn him over with his little finger."
The night was wonderful. The stars like thousands of little eyes twinkled most brilliantly, and the wise old
50 RICHMOND COLLEGE MESSENGER
moon actually winked at the little ripples of laughter on the lake. He had witnessed such nights before. Everett dressed carefully, tying and retying his tie, and at the same time trying to keep his eyes from the curtained corner where Bob Wakefield was hid. He surveyed himself mintrt.ely in the long mirror and inspected his cuffs three or four times before he turned to the door as if to go. The curtain moved slightly, Bob's head appeared, then a heavy thud and he lay s-prawling on the floor. Everett moved rapidly and chuckled to himself. "That cord under the rug certainly has been an inspiration.'' With Bob securely gagged and tied, he carefully removed all 'the globes from the electric lights, brushed a flicker of dust from his hat and went out.
'' What under the sun is the matter with these lights,'' muttered Byrne as he stumbled over a chair. "Here he is boys," as he fell across the writhing body. "We '11 have to do the best we can in 'the dark. Any of you happen to have a candle 1''
Among much kicking and squirming he carried the supposed Everett down the ladder and under the arc light.
'' What in the Sam Hill !'' exclaimed Byrne pulling the mask from the indignant Bob's face.
'' How in the'' .. his voice trailed off helplessly as he sank down upon a convenient benth.
Down town the Banquet was progressing rapidly. Everett stole a glance at his companion. He really hadn't had time to think about her until now. Her dress was a cloud of misty blue and her hair was a mass of gold just like mother's. "By George! she was pretty," he mused, '' real pretty, and he would have a date with her Sa:turday night or-or bust!''
FEMALE RELATrVEs I HA VE KNOWN.
MIRIAM NORMENT, '23.
I doubt if there is anything in the world so universally common as the female relative; in fact, it may even be stated with no fear of contradiction that there is not, nor ever has been any human being who could truthfully declare that he had none. Female relatives began when history did, and have been going strong ever since.
Afemale relative is not one's mother or any other loved member of one's family who unfortunately happens to be of feminine gender, but a person who is distinctly female. What an expressive word that is! No doubt the first cave man invented its equivalent when his mother-in-law came to his abode for a visit soon after he had dragged her lovely daughter away by her tresses. "What a lucky boy you are. I do hope wou '11be good to my little girl. She doesn't know how t.o pull the skin off a bear yet, but mamm.a '11 teach her.'' Her mamma shakes her finger . at the blushing aborigina, while her mere husband invents a few cuss words and prefixes his own appellation of male with an odious '' fe.'' I think the only time a woman has a chance to add to her name to form the masculine is in the terms "widow" and "widower." Let us be thankful that aborigina's husband died before she did.
There are doubtless some women who like the termvery old ladies in whose day it was decidedly genteel to read books on whose pages gentle females swooned at any or no excuse, and there are even a few of the she-fell-athis-f eet-as-if-dead species still remaining, though they are rapidly becoming extinct. Cousin Kate was one. She was not my cousin nor any one else's so far as I can find out; nevertheless she was always Cousin Kate. She wore a brown wig, and she kept her teeth in a glass of water at night. She was a female, oh my, yes ! In her youth, Cousin Kate must have been a great beauty and belle; at any rate I remember weeping one afternoon over the sad tale of two young men who had loved her in the days gone by. Of all the suitors for her hand Kate had fav-
52 RICHMOND COLLEGE MESSENGER
ored these two, and so great had their rivalry grown that they had resorted to duelling. One of them had been killed, and the gentle girl could not bear to marry the otµer because of his responsibility for the death of his friend; so she had remained single. Of course at the time, she had fainted and performed all the required actions of a young lady in such a predicament, even, I believe, lying in a trance for the space of three days. It was all very sad and romantic, but I must confess that it jarred me slightly to read the same story years later in a paper-backed volume called, "A Virginit1,n's Honor." I have no doubt, however, that Cousin Kate had met the author of this worthy book, and had told him her story, especially since the names of the rival lovers were the same in both cases. I have always remembered those names for I thought them quite beautiful at the time, Chauncey Copeland and Meredith de Laney.
The most vivid memory of my early childhood is of my great Aunt Belle. She was my mother's aunt, and the widow of an extremely clever man whose little book of poems written out in his old-fashioned hand, I still love to read. Of course I knew that Aunt Belle had been married, and I had even seen the brooch containing locks of hair from her husband's and daughter's heads a gruesome custom (that of wearing dead people's hair as an ornament), but somehow when I think of old maids, Aunt Belle is at the top of my list. In the first place she was always so pessimistic. Did any of the family go on a trip, Aunt Belle always bid them a fond farewell forever. Did Blair, my little brother, get a cold in his head, Aunt Belle wrote a note to the minister asking him to pray for her precious lamb. She always called him that, which infuriated me. I think I must have been jealous, though at the time I denied this strenuously. I was there when Blair was born, and up to that time I had been petted and spoiled by the entire family, including Aunt Belle, who now 'turned to him. · Not all my memories of pepermint pillows from Aunt Belle's roomy shopping bag can take the sting from the words '' good example,'' nor the irony
of the excellent advice, "Don't fight him; he is smaller than you.'' Alas, the time came soon when I was forced to obey the latter for the simple reason that Blair was stronger than I, and it was a great deal easier to refuse to hit any one younger than myself than to be beaten by my little brother. Blair's attitude towards Aunt Belle was that of an arrogant tyrant. I remember when he had chicken pox, and Aunt Belle devoted herself to amusing him. Now if any sick person ever is peevish, it is my small brother, so when he had about given out of things to complain about, he turned on his faithful nurse.
'' I don't see why you wear black all the time,'' quotes Master Blair.
"Well, precious, what would you like Auntie to wead" ''Oh-red.''
"My dear!" She is quite horrified. "Why, darling, old ladies can't wear red. ''
"Well, anything then but black." So Aunt Belle runs tremblingly to put a lavender kimono over her black dress to please his royal highness.
Poor old lady, I do hope she is happier in Heaven than she permitted herself to be here. Why, on her wedding day she almost refused to be married, so worried was she over the outcome, even though she loved her future husband.
I never heard of but one woman who was frank enough to admit that no man ever asked her to marry him, and unhappily I never saw her, for she died before my day. Tradition has it, however, that she had almost a masculine mustache in addition to being extraordinarily clever, so, as Frances says, it is no wonder no man wished to love, honor and obey her. Frances is my cousin who is married, so she can safely talk.
I remember, though, that once Frances used to talk of a career. No one was ever quite sure what kind of a career it was going to be, but most of the family had an idea of Grand Opera because she .used to sing '' The Rosary,'' a grea;t deal, looking out of the corner of her eye at some callow youth, and then at the close of the
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song she used to hug me close, or Blair, when I grew too big to make a picture of sweet motherly love. I believe I was very much thrilled over Frances' love affairs, and I used to wonder if the man named Baron Gaines, about whom ·she sang so much would ever be my cousin. I thought it would be grea:t fun to be kin to · nobility, and even now I picture a prince in a velvet suit riding a cold black horse (why is it always the thing for princes to have velvet suits and black horses?), whenever a singer trills, '' Oh, barren gain and bitter loss.''
Some day I intend to find out the author of that most truthful saying, '' The Lord gives us our relatives, but, thank Heaven, we can choose our friends." Now, I was born with a goodly number of kinsfolk, seven uncles, and three aunts to be exact, not mentioning their respective wives and husbands and their twenty some children, so why in the world I adopted another whole family will always remain a mystery. The fact is, however, that that is just what I did, a whole clan of them, led by Aunt Eva. Aunt Eva was born a martyr; she was just made that way, as some people are naturally clinging-vines. In the :first place she must have had a dreadfully hard time as a child. Not only was she born during the War Between the States, but she was one too many in an already overcrowded family. Of course no one ever told me Aunt Eva wasn't wanted, but I have just gathered this from the way in which her brothers and sisters sigh, "Poor Eva;'' and from the outrageous way in which her parents named her. No doubt names were growing scarce, but it does seem to me they might have economized somewhat better than by naming an innocent baby after the initials of three dead sisters, Elizabeth, Virginia, and Augusta. This always struck me as particularly curious because another sister in the same family is named Juliana Eliza Louisa, although she is called Violet for short.
To look at Aunt Eva, nobody would ever think that what she craves above anything else is to suffer; nevertheless, as one of her real nephews says, '' Aunt Eva isn't happy till she's miserable.'' If one lives in the country
I suppose it is necessary to get up comparatively early, but personally, I never could see any point in rising at six in winter, and :fivein summer, and then not having breakfast until ten. Naturally, I have never complained, and so I have not discovered the reason any more than I have understood her deep rooted prejudice against automobiles. She has never been persuaded to go for a ride, though she is entirely fearless, I believe. Of course if she did not want to go, it would be an entirely different matter, but when a party goes off after begging her to accompany them, she remarks to herself and whoever else is left behind, "I hope before I die, that one of my nephews will take me to ride in his car. T haven't been off the place for :fiveyears. This is, to put it mildly, disconcerting.
The only person who ever had the nerve to take Aunt Eva as a joke is Louise, but then she never took anything or body really seriously. '' Little, but loud,'' is her motto, and, at the risk of making this sound like a write-up in a High School Annual, I feel that I must say that this same Louise is the gayest, most irresponsible young person who ever was born into a highly respectable family. In the :first place she is el:fishly ugly, and in the second, she is dangerously clever, and thinks she's more so than she is. Louise is one of the many people who has been credited with making the remark that he or she was "not handsome, by Jove, but devilish attractive,'' but I have my doubts as to whether or not she is really the author of this renowned adage. A great many people, particularly the parerrts of her friends, dislike Louise, but personally, I have always been quite fond of her, possibly because the only really clever pun I ever made was at her expense. I am tempted to write down the pun, for I am very proud of it, ~ut, after all, a pun is a low form of wit, though I never have been able to see why. About a year ago Louise was married, which was, I may as well admit, a great shock to the whole family. I have not seen her since, and it's hard to imagine her with a husband, but then his name is Harold, so perhaps that explains it. The
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wedding, I gather, was mostly officers and crossed swords, bridesmaids in red and blue dresses, and Louise in white. Aunt Eva said it was a sacrilege to use her country's colors and uniform thus, but of course, this is her private opinion, and she most probably didn't mean it at all. What a lot of female relatives there are in the world! One could go on forever, but, then, isn't it rather unkind . to make fun of them. Perhaps Aunt Belle and Cousin Kate and all the rest are the character women in the play, for "all the world's a stage," you know, and it isn't reasonable for us all to wish to be giggling ingenues or tragedy queens.
THE NIGHTWIND.
POLLY SIMPSON, '23. Little nightwind at my window, What makes you cry and moan T Why do you beat against the pane T Are you afraid to be alone T Shall I come out and play with you Over that far blue hill T I wonder if mama'd let me goI '11ask her if she will !
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"FOOLS RUSH IN-----1"
GRACEMc.ALPINE,'22.
The deep-toned town clock boomed out six strokes, the clanging reverberations slowly dying away in the chill, damp atmosphere. It was a foggy night with a stiff March wind that sent the mist swirling and twisting before it. Jimmy Green shivered antici.patingly as he gazed down from his office window at the kaleidoscope of humanity in the street. The wet, shining pavement was filled with a sea of umbrellas, lines of closed taxis, and crowded street cars. The hungry, pushing throng was hurrying homeward. Homeward! Jimmy leaned his hot forehead against the cool, rain-stretched window pane, determinedly shutting his mind to the bright picture which that word conured. It caused a strange choking sensation in hls throat. He would spend the evening in the warm darkness of a theater, his mind firmly fixed on joys and sorrows portrayed in the latest musical comedy. Then he would tumble into bed and lose consciousness in that pricel e ss gift to poor mortals, sleep. .A strict adherence to this program was the only way to escape that desolating loneliness which filled his whole being on a mght like this.
The janitor's che ery whistle broke in upon his reverie, and catching up his hat and coat, Jimmy hurried after the rest of the office force. With his collar well up and his hat well down, he plunged into the mist, his tall slim figure moving swiftly through the tlhrong. Re soon found himself in a side street, and unconsciously slackening his speed, he gazed longingly at the lights of the homes. They seemed doubly attractive tonight in contrast to the cold, damp outer darkness .
.A door opened suddenly, letting a shaft of light fall across the sidewalk. The stout, well-wrapped figure which appeared on the threshold paused a moment to call a parting word over his shoulder.
"Good-night, doctor," answered a clear young voice from within. "I'm sorry you have to be out in such miserable weather.''
Slamming the door behind him, the corpulent doctor pounded down the steps and whirled away in his waiting machine, leaving Jimmy on the sidewalk in front of the cozy little home. His interest had been curiously awakened by the ringing, bell-like quality in the girlish voice which had floated out to him. He was keenly sensitive to everything musical, and prided himself on his power to pick out a singing voice even in its conversational tones.
"That girl has an unusually good voice, I'll bet my bottom dollar,'' was the judgment he pronounced as he turned to go on.
Just then the faint tinkle of a piano came from behind the closed door. He paused, wondering if she really were going to sing. His curiosity getting the better of him, he slipped quietly inside the gate listening intently. Yes, she was singing, and her muffled voice sounded tantalizingly sweet. He must hear it more clearly. With a tingling feeling of adventure, he boldly mounted the steps, caught hold of the door-post to steady himself, and applied his ear to the key hole. The melody of song which came to him then was a sufficient reward to his temerity. He drank in the pure golden notes thirstily and felt hugely elated over his find. But the music stopped suddenly in the middle of a lilting passage. He was just straightening himself up with a disappointed frown when the door opened quietly. Poor Jimmy clung to the supporting post and blinked astonished eyes at the slim silhouette of the girl against her glowing background.
"Good evening, sir I I'm sorry I was rather slow in opening the door, but it really isn't necessary to ring the bell any long er," she said calmly, in her peculiarly sweet voice.
The horrible realization fl.ashed upon Jimmy that his thumb was at that moment pressing down upon the bell fas t ened into the door-post. Hastily removing the guilty m ember he snatched off his hat and murmured his apologies. The girl graciously swept them aside, and he ~as astounded at the spectacle of himself meekly followmg her into the brightness and actually sitting down by the leaping fire.
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"Was it Mrs. Thayer you wished to seet" asked the girl with grave kindness.
He nerved himself for the plunge and took it bravely . . "No, I came to see you, Miss Thayer."
He was too busy collecting his thought to notice the strange expression which sprang to her face at his remark, or feel the startled, inquiring gaze fastened upon him. The silence grew depressing. She became politely helpful.
'' I don't believe I know your name.''
"Oh-er-say-" he began desperately, determined to ma~e his confession and beg that she be merciful to him, a srnner.
"Mr. Saye," she interrupted thoughtfully. "I can't seem to place you. ''
He gave one glance at her exquisite profile as she gazed into the fire, cast his thought of con£ession to the winds, and began fictioning with an easy fluency that gave his Puritan ancestry a bad half-hour in their graves.
"My sister, Mary, used to talk of you continually while she was going to school. She was only an jnconspicuous little Freshman when you graduated and I have no doubt that you have forgotten her. But she adored you from afar, and told me to be sure to call while I was in town."
He paused for breath, observing the effect of the vigorous splashing with which he had followed up his plunge. He heaved a deep sigh of relief when she answered enthusiastically.
''No, I haven't forgotten little Mary, but her last name had slipped my mind. She used to tell me about her brother John, or was it Leon 1''
"Leon," he lied promptly and cheerfully. "That's me.''
He was enjoying the situation immensely now tha:t the Rubicon was crossed.
She chatted on entertainigly about her school days, and the mutual escapades in which she and Mary had indulged. He was quite interested at the character which his suddenly acquired sisted developed under the clever
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tongue of Miss Thayer. He automatically "registered" surprise, delight or amusement at the proper intervals, but a vague undercurrent of distractingly interesting thought floated through his mind. What expressive little gestures she made wi'th those well-shaped, white hands. Capable hands in spite of their delicacy .... There were real depths to her eyes ... brown, but not languid. He had determined at sixteen that his wife should have brown eyes and a beautiful voice.
The little French clock on the mantle remarked sharply that rt was six-thirty. She gave a tentative invitation to supper which he brazenly and joyously accepted. They skated skillfully over the thin ice of personal conversation until the meal was announced by a trim little maid. Aside to Miss Thayer she added that Mrs. Thayer was resting after the doctor's visit and would not come down.
Tea-cups and table-talk always lead to confidences, especially when the table is daintily laid for two. When they arose from their supper, a lasting friendship had been established between the two young people. Jimmy vowed inwardly that this tie should become closer before many moons had passed. As for Miss Thayer, an unaccountable vision of a June morning with hazy suggestions of roses and bridesmaids made her blush guiltily, and hastily lead the way back to the easy chairs. They were just settling themselves for more confidences in the firelight when a high, cracked voice sounded behind them.
''Well, dearie, I was just wondering what you were doing down here all by yourself.''
There stood in the doorway a smiling, nodding old woman presenting an ear trumpet toward the girl.
"Oh, auntie, I'm glad you came down. May I present my friend, Mr. Saye1 Mrs. Thayer, Mr. Saye."
"I didn't quite catch the name, dearier," said the old lady apologetically.
'' Mr. Leon Saye,'' called the girl into the trumpet.
"Your fiance !" gasped Mrs. Thayer, sitting down stiffly upon the sofa.
"No, no! Not that!" came hastily from the girl.
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''Oh! Not Yet 1 My, my! Why don't you settle the question. Remember, young man, my little Prudence Cabot is not to be played with. But maybe I am interrupting,'' and she . withdrew in high good-humor at her own adroitness.
Her shrill laughter was not heard by the two young people who stood staring at each other as if fascinated.
''You must think I'm the bigges't fraud on earth to deceive you as I did,'' she burst out at last, flushing painfully. "My name is not Thayer at all, and I never knew Mary, and of course I never heard of Leon Saye before in my life!"
"Neither have I," he laughed. "It's my turn to confess now,'' and squaring his shoulders, he made a clean breast of the whole affair.
At the end of an hour, complete understanding reigned between the two culprits. They had both been desperately lonesome, but now they were ridiculously happy, as they sat on the hearth-rug and talked it all over. The dancing flames winked knowingly as their flickering light played over the two young faces. They leaped and glowed as if reoicing in the happiness which was waiting around the corner for "little Prudence Cabot" and li'ttle Jimmy Green.
THE STUDENT VOLUNTEER CONVENTION AT DES MOINES, 1920.
Chairman John R. Mott, in his great opening address, striking the keynote of the whole convention, first impressed it upon us that we had come together from a thousand colleges and from forty nations, for the purpose of getting a vision of the world as it is today. This we did and more, for we likewise got a new vision of our own lives, and a new vision of God.
Speakers of international prominence pictured to us conditions in this new world, a world that is embittered, exhausted, impoverished, burdened, overwrought and altogether confused, but a world that has been humbled and is comparatively unselfish, a world that is expectant and teachable, and, above all, ready to be moled by our hands. Mr. Sherwood Eddy described to us his seven mountain peaks of vision, from the Marne to Asia and the Near East and back :finally to the platform at D.es Moines. Foreign students painted for us the situation in their homes, and the possibilities to be decided by us. They begged not so much for the thing commonly called Christianity as for Christ Himself.
Others told us how the war had brought to mankind a deep revelation of the divine Judge, a lessening of racial prejudices, an enlarged capacity for giving and for sacrifice, a deeper interest in the life to come, and a certain attitude of moral seriousness toward this life. They reminded us that it is not over yet, that the victory of the spirit has yet to come. We saw the needs of Asia and the Near East, of Africa and Latin America; we saw the unequaled opportunity; and we realized 'the tremendous responsibility resting upon American students, who alone in their strength, are able to change the face of the world, and, with the aid of God, to do the impossible.
We saw our own lives in a new light, a true light, revealing 'their narrowness, their pettiness, and, above all, their selfishness. We saw their impotence and their failure to come up to the standard. W,e found out the difference between making a living and making a life. We
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learned that self-sacrifice is only another way of saying self ~expression. Various plans for life investment were laid out before us, work among the needy peoples of foreign countries being particularly emphasized, of course. Every missionary there expressed his complete satisfaction with the life he had chosen, and his sincere preference to be at work at his station now, rather than here in the homeland. We discovered anew that only in service can we make the best of our lives, and inwardly each one of us highly resolved 'to dethrone the tyrant self and to put in his place the God of Love. And through the new vision of the world and the new vision of ourselves came a new vision of God. He became to us more universal and more personal. We found him to be not only the great Creator of everything, but the loving Father of all mankind, and the living presence ever near to each of us.
K. H. S., '21.
Dear Editor:
I 'thought I could write a poem, And, I tried to, ever so hard, But Pve come to the sad conclusion That I'm not very much of a bard.
My thoughts chase each other in circles, There's never an end to rhyme. I see far away in the distance The heights I've been 'trying to climb.
My words all lack color; they're stupid! They don't say a thing new, or bright, And since I can't write what they call free verse, Its prose, and prose only, I'll write.
Regretfully yours, GLADYS SHAW, '22.