MARY FUGATE ___________________________________Business Manager
LELIA DOAN--------------------------- ,--Assistant Business Manager
THE MESSENGER (founded 1878; named for the Southern Literary Messenger) is published on the 15th of each month from October to May, 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 n ot. A j OINT WKITER'S MEDAL, val~e<l a t t wen t y-five do!l::rs, wilt be given by the two societies to the writer of the best article appearing in THE MESSENGER during the year.
· All contributions should be handed to the department editors or the Editor-in-Chief by the 1st of the month preceding. Business communications and subscriptions should be directed to .the Business Manager and Assistant Business Manager, respectively.
Address-
THE
MESSENGER,
University of Richmond, Va.
DR. J. J. WICKER, Pastor
Cor. Twenty-fifth and Leigh Streets
Broad and Twenty-fifth Street Cars Pass the Church
Preaching 11 A. M. and 8 P. M.
Sunday School 9:30 A. M., B. Y. P. U., 7 P. M.
Richmond and Westhampton College Students Transfer to Broad and Twenty-fifth Street Cars
We Welcome You to Our Services
R.
E.
GARST, '22
Give me a book and a bright warm fireside, With a friend, perhaps, or alone .With my hopes and thoughts; and their rushing tide Bears me away, and dreams claim their own.
"Tis easy to plan and build castles in fiames, For the years to come and beyond, With hope kindled bright, the film of our dreams Runs on; and draws us away from despond.
You say it is useless and a waste of good time To dream by the fireside alone; 1 say it's a comfort and a help that's sublime,
For one dream come true proves a thousand 'fore gone.
l»btn a jflan i.obt~
VIRGINIA MONCURE, '22
"Aw, gee whiz, Mother, you want to drag a bloomin' girl to a dance?" Dick spoke incredulously. "Don't you know how I hate 'em? Haven't you any consideration for my feelin's ?"
('Enjoy it? Like cheese I will! Why do I have to do all the 'dirty work?" He called upon heaven to witness his sad lot. "Let a feller have some peace!"
"If you'll just stop ravin' for one minute, Mother'll explain," said Nancy, with dignity. She ignored his black scowl.
"Cousin Cornelia hasn't anyone to take Harriet out, and I thought it would be nice for----"
"Nice!" burst out Dick, hoarse with emotion. "Nice!"
"I thought," continued his mother, completely ignoring the interruption, "it would be nice for you to take her to the High School dance tomorrow night. She's the daughter of one of my old schoolmates, and I'd like to show her that attention."
"Why in Sam Hill---," but he stopped, utterly at a loss to make her understand his inflexible dislike of girls and dances. What woman could understand a man anyw ay . Why did he have to make a "simp" of himself for any girl? The utter futility of it all! Girls meant nothing in his young life. Why should he be thus forced to recognize their existence?
"I will not take her," he announced. "Never!" This is a deep, bass voice.
Tearing his hair and gnashing his teeth, he made a • dramatic exit. Fate, inevitable and unrelenting, dogged his foosteps. Bitter Anguish and Dark Despair marked him for their own.
The day being Sunday, Dick, all thought of the fair sex erased from his mind, went to church. Hands thrust deep into his pockets, feet planted far apart, and head thrown back, he sang lustily. He heard a thud, and saw a hymnal at his feet. Dick picked it up and turned to the pew behind him.
"Oh, I am so clumsy. Please excuse me," this came in dulcet tones from a vision hovering elusively before his eyes. He invariably became flustered when he looked at a girl.
Dick thrust the hymn book at her and, unable to articulate, floundered awkwardly to a sitting posture. All at once he had become painfully self-conscious. He fumbled at his tie. Gee, he must look a sight! Dick discovered that he had an uncontrollable desire to look at the fair one again. He edged cautiously over to the other end of the pew, seemingly to get a better view of the preacher, but in reality, to see her. Say, but Venus wasn't "in it!" He had never seen such glorious red hair. And her eyes---they surely did get to a fellow! He experienced pleasant little thrills. Puffer, two pews in front of Dick, glared disgustedly at him.
After church he accosted Dick, "Goin' home now?"
"Not so's you'd notice it. I gotta see 'bout somethin'," Dick was preoccupied. He caught a glimpse of red hair, and left the fat boy gazing, with profound pity, after him.
Dick was consumed with an inordinate curiosity. Who was she and where did she live? He gazed enraptured and followed from afar, even as Mary's "little lamb." She tripped along with mincing steps that gave her the air of a lithesome, blithesome fairy. And he'd be "jiggered" if she didn't go "plumb" into Cousin Cornelia's house! Dazed and happy Dick watched her. Say, but wasn't he about the luckiest "guy" there was! His head in the clouds, Dick wended his way homeward. Bounding up the porch steps he burst into the living room where his mother was.
"Mumsie, d'you still want me to take that girl to the dance?" he tried to make his tone indifferent. It would never do to seem too anxious.
She smiled, knowingly to herself, and attributed his sudden change of attitude to .the influence of a good sermon. "I leave it with you, son. You could go to see her tomorrow after school, and ask her," she suggested gently, fearful of breaking the charm.
The rest of the day Dick wandered about the house, singing an old song he had heard Nancy sing in a tender moment. A soulful e?(:pression came into his eyes as he rendered it:
"I love you, I love you, I love you; You are the ideal of my dreams, And I knew you somehow, When I met you just now, You are the ideal of my dreams !"
This tuneful outburst relieved him considerably. But not so Nancy.
"Why this sudden disturbance in our midst?" she inquired with a solicitude. "Is mamma's 'ittle boy in lub with a dreat big girl?" Dick, with a superior air, refused to divulge any information.
Next day at school, Dick slouched in his seat, conjuring up many a situation fraught with dire peril. He invariably figured as the daring hero, and She as the "damsel in distress." Before the closing bell rang he had rescued her many times and had smiled condescendingly upon her profuse thanks. Enveloped in a dreamy haze, he sauntered homeward.
After dinner, in the sanctuary of his room, Dick took occasion to gaze: at himself in the mirror. Approving of what he saw reflected there, he gazed the more earnestly. He was indeed good to look upon---in his own estimation! Posing nonchalantly, Dick voiced his sentiments in these
few pertinent words, "You handsome cuss, you!" He watched the movement of his lips, and smiled sweetly upon his image. Was that a shadow on his upper lip? Bending closer, he eagerly scrutinized it.
"Yea, bo, I'll say it's a sure 'nuff one!" Dick told himself, in an awe-struck voice. He touched it, reverentiy, lovingly. "Maybe she's see it!"
He sat down and, twining his legs around the legs of his chair, contemplated a rosy future. A far-away look came into his eyes, and the corners of his mouth drooped ,broodingly. Suddenly, with something akin to a shiver, the dreamer realized that he must call on the lady fair .and ask her if she would condescend to go with one so humble to the dance. Gee, how was he ever goin' to get up "nerve" to talk to her! He caught sight of his re-flection in the mirror and, now become all at once more --critical, saw only too plainly that there was room for improvement. He stared despairingly at his shaggy, dis'hevelled locks. An inspiration found access to his tortured brain. He would part his hair in the middle. He •did so, whistling ruminatively between his teeth and then stood off to regard his handiwork. Gee, if he didn't 'believe he looked like an Arrow-Collar man.
Dick went reluctantly to Cousin Cornelia's. Each -step found him shakier than the last until, when he rang the bell, he was ready to crumple up. Cousin Cornelia felt it her duty to chat with him before Harriet came down. Dick never heard a word she said. In a daze, :he was dimly conscious of shaking hands perfunctorily ·with the object of his dreams. Cousin Cornelia vanished and a deathly silence ensued. Dick swallowed and it sounded to him like the gurgle of a dying man. He was -overpowered by her nearness. Inserting a finger between his neck and collar, he moved his head from side to side, -in a manner peculiar to man.
"Say, d'you like to dance?" he asked, jumbling the words in his confusion.
"Oh, I'm wild about dancin' !" she answered with enthusiasm.
"Wanter go to a school dance?" he inquired further. . "Just try me!" she invited, smiling in an adorable manner that dispersed all of Dick's qualms.
"Gee, but I'm glad!" he grinned for pure joy. It was a pretty good old world after all. "How long yuh gonner be here?"
"Just till tomorrow night," she said, sending him into, the depths of despair.
When it was time to leave, they parted reluctantly, Dick lingering at the door.
"Say, but don'tcha know I sure do like red hair!" he was unable to control himself longer. Then overcome with embarrassment, he precipitately fled.
Tingling with joy, . Dick swung homeward. His progress was retarded by a certain fat boy, planted determinedly in his path.
"How's the world treatin' yuh, old man?" Dick shouted patronizingly.
"Huh, you're a nice one, you are! Been chasin' round after a skirt, haven't yuh ?" Puffer spoke with withering scorn. "I nevuh thought you'd fall for that."
"Y ou needn't be so all-fired cheeky 'bout it. Is it any of your business, I'd like to know?" Dick inquired with dignity. .
"Say, but you are a soft guy!" criticized Puffer, by no means daunted. "Stuck on a girl! Huh!"
"Lis'en here, I'll crawl your frame in just about two minutes!" Dick said fiercely, catching the other's arm and twisting it. Puffer wilted.
"Leggo, I tell yuh !" he shouted vehemently. An. extra twist reduced him to groveling submission. "Aw, let up, Dick," he implored plaintively. "You know I was jus' kiddin' you. She is easy to look at, old scout. I'll tell the world she is! She's a reg'lar humdinger!" Puffer waxed eloquent, and was thereupon released.
"If a feler gets fresh and says anything against her," said Dick grimly, with the light of a knight of old in his eyes, "he's got to eat his words, or I'll knock his block off!"
"You tell 'em 'bout it, old kid!" Puffer called after him.
Once again in his room, Dick engaged in his usual indoor sport, mirror-gazing. Then, armed with a cake of soap, a wash-cloth and hot water, he literally boiled and scrubbed his face. This ordeal over, with critical eyes he examined the result and decided, with no little satisfaction, that his was "a skin you love to touch." Brazenly confiscating some of Nancy's perfume, he lavishly anointed his locks, and, with a flourish, parted his his a la Arrow-Collar man. In the hall Dick encountered a difficulty in the person of Nancy.
"Ain't 'im swate," she purred, "with 'im's hair parted in the middle?" She evidently didn't detect her contribution to these same locks.
"How do I look?" he asked gruffly.
"As always, only cleaner," Nancy replied succinctly, shattering all his illusions. She sniffed the air suspiciously, and he fled from her august presence.
Hands in his pockets, and elbows at an angle peculiar to himself, Dick swung down the street. His hat rested on his eyebrows in a manner that necessitated gazing, with a penetrating air, from beneath the brim. He flattered himself that this gave him an undeniably sophisticated appearance. The effect was that of a man-ofthe-world surveying all men from beneath lowered brows. In this fashion Dick hurried toward his destination.
Harriet was a "vision of delight" in a pale green georgette. They strolled slowly toward the school. Suddenly she looked inquisitively up at Dick.
"Guess who I think you look like?" she smiled whimsically.
THE MESSENGER
"I dunno," answered Dick, gazing at her with his soul in his eyes. He was thinking how "swell" red hair and a green dress looked together.
"An Arrow-Collar man," she spoke lightly.
"Aw, gosh, d'you really mean that?" he asked, and his voice cracked with emotion.
"Keep your shirt on!" advised a small, grimy youngster, passing them. Then he recognized Dick. "A---w, Dick's got a girl! Dick's got a girl!" and he sang it out, not once, but many times.
Thus was Dick heralded into the Land of Romance.
Coming3Jnto&tgbt
(With Apologies to Mr. McNeill)
A SOPHOMORE
When a Freshman has with fervor tried to find himself a girl
In the mazes of Westhampton or some other nearby world, There need not be within his heart a single chilling fear, Because a boasting Sophomore perchance may be too near.
Just have a little confidence and obey the damsel shy, Perhaps with her assistance the Soph. will pass you by. Let her stare and frown upon him, let her stamp her tiny foot,
And be sure the dreadful Sophomore will stay where he is put!
You will see him fade and wither as a flower in fatal blight.
And thus you'll find him vanquished, the Soph. who "came in sight."
You must not for get while thinking o'er your ·mighty · qualities
That the lassie, too, possesses even mightier faculties.
She fears no boastful Sophomore or any bold, mere-man. Her fears are those of hideous things--a mouse, a rat; and can
You not in readiness this matter plainly see, That "edging" Soph. must .soon be off or else a dead man he.
THE MESSENGER
Oh do not pause but keep on striving, little Freshman mine,
All you have to do is pick one, from the "variegated line." And continue your attentions with a sturdy hope that she Will keep the "comingJJ Sophomore away, yes, far from thee.
If your meekness shows a weakness in your tender little breast,
Consider how the Sophomore was once like you; and rest Upon the assumption that some day in vain delight You may be a Sophomore and boldly "come in sight."
Then you can take the interest in the lassies 'cross the lake,
Enjoying all those farmer hits you tried so hard to make. And in the near, sweet second year you'll find there's nothing quite So pleasant to a Sophomore as "coming into sight!"
~lentp to ~ear
JULIET WOODSON, '22
A washerwoman is a never present help in time of trouble. Just let the furnace go out on a bitter cold day, or the cook get sick, or the cat disappear, and it's surer .. than fate that Mary or Susie or Ca'line will send a note, or appear in person, to announce her resignation. Indeed, last week when the grocer mixed our order twice in succession, Mother, with a dreadful premonition, gave us the news exactly two hours before the fateful note appeared. Life, as we know it 1 is just one laundress after another.
Prominent in the line of succession looms up Countess Pink. Her name was a perfect antonym, her complexion . being as far from pink as her bearing was from being noble. Uriah Heep's mother would have faded into insignificance beside the Countess in the matter of humility. She made us feel that we were doing her the greatest possible favor in giving her our patronage; but, on the other hand, we dared to offer neither suggestion nor criticism for fear of wounding her tender feelings. So, for three weeks we endured painfully starched handkerchiefs and semi-ironed blouses. Royalty's taste, however, will out, I suppose; and eventually our long-suffering mother decided that having lace disappear from our clothes as fast or faster than we could replace it could be borne no longer. Thus the Countess stood not upon the order of her going, but went at once.
Be'trice Industrious was her immediate successor. Ber's was another misnomer . .B. Gloomy or B. Desolate would have been infinitely more appropriate, for from the very beginning we suspected her of having a broken heart. Her very words oozed tears, her little notes---she was addicted to the habit of sticking notes in the clothes basket ( for the purpose, I've always believed, of depressing us, too )---were bordered with black, and my middies
MESSENGER
gave circumstantial evidence that she wept as she worked. Her sad countenance shadowed our Mondays and haunted our Saturdays. We spent our spare time · in vain attempts to discover the awful terror that darkened her life. But in the end it was B. Industrious herself who cleared up the matter. She dismally announced . one day that she would henceforth have to give up washing because it interfered with her social duties. And when mother innocently inquired what her social duties might be she sobbed out the information that she was a . debutante!
Three Marys, a Carrie, and a Minerva intervened between the melancholy butterfly and our present incumbent.
Hattie White is as laconic and uninteresting as her · name, but her reasoning power is a perpetual marvel. Day before yesterday I answered her knock at the door. "Here they are, uh--ah. I'm afraid I've forgotten your name," I remarked conversationally as I gave her the basket.
She surveyed me with silent indifference for a second,. and then, pointing to an old straw hat of father's that always hangs on the back hall-rack, she murmured gently, "White hat---Hattie White," and disappeared. Hattie · the lackadaisical, the sullen, is among our chief test treasures. Little does she suspect that her price is aboverubies or that we peer fearfully from the front window when the dpor bell rings terrified lest it mean the awful note!
When Jeanne d' Arc was urged to abandon her effort to save her country and to stay at hqme ---"woman's sphere" ---it is said that she answered that there were plenty at home to spin and wash. Happy Jeanne! Can't you imagine her slipping gleefully into a freshly starched petticoat or a spanking clean smock---or whatever it was · the fashion to wear under your suit of armor---without mentally damning the washerwoman? Lucky Jeanne, I say! It was enough to have inspired any woman.
eriginal 3Tim
C. N. SNEAD, '23
Two pals were walking down the street, Thinking perhaps some friend they1d meet Out walking, just as they were then, For entertainments sake. And when They found no one whose face they knew, Said one, "Tll tell you what we'll do: We think we know this blooming town, And every guy that hangs around The courthouse green for days and days, Philosophing on the ways A man should act---as seen by him, Although his eyes are sometimes dim, It may be that we don't quite know So much as they who sit there so Unmindful of the passing crowd, With face so calm, and words so loud."
"Why, there's old Jim; ha, ha; some fun Is in the air for us now, John, His hobby is some 'ancient gal,' Because, says he, 'she's 'riginal,' Original; well, you'll have a fit; The proselyting hypocrite!"
"Eh, hello, John." "I boys," said he. "Nice weather, Jim." "Fine as can be." "Say, won't you meet a good old pal? And by the way, original. He says belongs to bygone days And people who had funny ways Of doing everything that came To hand; well, we can't see the game."
"You can't?" Jim puffed his pipe and grinned, Stretched out his legs, and tucked his chin Down on his chest. "Well, boys, " he said, "P'rhaps your understanding's dead. See that there dog across the street? Jes' watch him; see, its in his feet, The way he lifts 'em up an' down--You know darn well he ain't no hound." He chuckled; then, "I knows a man, And you do, too; why boys you can Jes' tell him far as you can see. Well, 'riginal, you don't tell me There's no such thing---that' s nonsense talk; Why boys, you tells him by his walk!"
"You got a gal? She laughs, I guess, Of course you know jes' how the rest Of 'em all laugh---now ain't that true? But, do they all sound like to you? Lord, you sure ought to know my gal, She don't exactly laugh as pals Do, talking 'bout some foolish thing As happened way back in the spring, She smiles,! Well, you don't know how, Unless you love some nice high-brow As I do. She may be a gal Just like the rest, but 'riginal."
The pals walked on without a word Being spoken, until "Old Jim's a bird," Said John. "He's never seen a school, But one thing's sure: Jim is no fool."
J Will 1Littmp,ffltne~pes mnto1lrbe11,ills
GLADYS SHA w, '22
She sat on her low front steps and waited. With her hands foldly idly in her lap and her tired head leaning against the doorpost, she drank in the fragrant beauty of the summer moonlight. The tall pines swayed gently in the light wind, nodding their silvered needles. The soft balmy breeze, redolent with the pungent pine smell, and the heavy sweetness of clematis, brushed her cheek lightly and lifted the straw locks on her forehead.
As in a dream she listened to the noises of the night. The dominant, ever-recurring note was the muffled roar and the musical splash of the river as it leaped over the falls and dashed against the boulders in a mist of flying spray. High up among the waving branches of a towering pine, a tree toad chirped lustily. Now and then a drowsy bird cheeped sleepily. From across the river there came the plaintive call of a whippoorwill.
The woman on the steps raised her head. She could see the river flashing silver through the pines. Off in the distance the hills raised their heads, tall dark silhouettes against the moon-white sky. The face she turned from the distant hills seemed to gather strength and purpose from them. The moonlight softened the lines of toil and sorrow, and made a silver halo of her wind-blown hair.
The whispering breeze came again, wafting to her ears the sound of music, the voices of men and boys singing, the tones so£tened and clarified by the distance, a minor chord in the symphony of night. They were going home from camp meeting. Arthur wouldn't be long now. She would tell him tonight, here on the steps in the moonlight. How she prayed for · the strength to make him see things clearly as she did. It was just such a night eighteen years ago that she had sat on these very steps and waited.
She heard the muffled beating of the hoofs of a horse as he galloped through the old covered-bridge over the creek, the loose planks clattering as he passed. Involuntarily she shivered. Arthur was coming. She must tell him everything, and then unfold her plans for the future. The rider dashed up the road, and reined up before her. A youth swung down from the saddle, and flung himself on the steps beside the woman.
"Why son, what's the matter?" she queried. "You're all het up like---"
"Ole Alec Ritter tole a dirty lie about my pap!" The boy hissed it between his teeth.
His mother's face blanched, but she saked calmly, "How came Alec to say such a thing?"
Arthur hung his head shamefacedly and stammered, "I asked Maudie to let me see her home from meetin' ---" "No, no, Artie, not Maudie," she half moaned. "Why, Mammy, what's the matter? Why hadn't I ought to ask Maudie to let me see her home from meetin'? Ain't she the purtiest girl in these parts? She shore acted right-smart, glad to have me go, too. Jes' as we was startin' ole Alec, her pap, comes up an' grabs Maudie away an' afore I could move he blazes out cussin' me an' my pap. I though he was goin' to kill me." The boy watched his mother's face as he choked over the words. "He said my pap , was a---a ,murderer---an' was hung. · What did he mean, Mammy? He was jes' lyin', wasn't he?"
There was a hopeful note in his voice as he appealed to his mother. One of her work-stained hands was laid on his shoulder as she answered, "No, Artie, ole Alec wasn't lyin'. · He was speakin' gospel truth." She felt the boy cringe and spoke in a soothing tone, "Thar, thar, Artie, don't take on so. I've been layin' out to tell you for a month or so now. .God Hisse'l on'y knows why yo' ain't foun' it out 'fore now, with everybody so plumb anxious to poke their fingers in other folks' pies."
One wrinkled hand twined itself in and out among the boy's thick brown curls ; the other creased and re-creased her faded checked gingham apron. The large brown freckles and the splotchy earth-stains showed plainly in the moonlight. With her eyes looking over the boy's bead out at the distant hills 1 she began her story.
"It was jes' eighteen years ago tonight that it happened. I was setin' here waitin' fer your pap same as I had been waitin' fer yo'. Yo' was a-sleepin' like a little angel in the cradle what your pap made yo', an' the moon was jes' as bright an' frien'ly-like as she is now." Her voice was colorless, but it never faltered or broke.
"All to oncet, I hears Dan'l's horse come lickety-split through the ole covered bridge over the creek. I knowed then by the way he was gallopin' somethin' was wrong. In less than a minute he was right here, slippin' out o' his saddle like yo' done jes' now. He staggers some as he come toward me. 'Judy,' he says, 'they're arter me! Fer Gawd's sake hide me quick!' I jomps up an' helps .him into the house. He was like a crazy man. 'Who's .arter yo', Dan'l?' I says. 'What's happened?' He never said nothin'. Jes' then we hears horses lumberin' through the bridge. Your pap's eyes looked same as a wild man's. He starts up the stairs into the loft, but 'fore he gets half way up; Alec Ritter an' Grady Brewer busts in the door an' grabs him by the collar-band."
The boy gazed at his mother, fascinated, horror in his eyes. In silence he kept her eyes fastened on the dark outline of the hills for a breathless moment, then she went on in her colorless tone.
'' 'What be yo' <loin' to my Dan'l ?' I asks Alec Ritter. "Alec's face turns plumb purple an' I thinks he'll ,choke. Grady Brewer answers fer him, pokin' his ugly red face close to mine,' 'We're goin' to hang yo' Dan'l, we .are!' "
Arthur shivered and gasped. His mother patted his head as though he were a little child.
"They drags your pap out here on the porch. The crowd out there set up an awful yellin', an' they all tries to get him. 'Tie him up, the darn' murderer,' they yells. 'Let me to him.' I swings onto Alec Ritter's arm an' begs for mercy. He shakes hisse'f like a big dog an' slings me up agin' the house. 'Tie her up, too !' yells one of them, an' they ties me to this here post.'' The hand that had been nervously creasing her apron touched the post against which she was leaning.
"Then---they takes your pap to that tree yonder.'' One trembling finger pointed to the tallest pine, where the tree-toad was chirping. For the first time her voice broke. "They takes him thar---an' they ties him up to that first lirnb---I watches him till the end. When the moon set an' the sky was gettin' grey, they unties me an' goes away, all but 'Pap' Upchurch. He was the same 'Pap' Upchurch then, eighteen years ago, same like he's 'Pap' Upchurch now. I reckon he ain't never been young. 'Pap' stays behind with me, makes me some strong black coffee, an' then helps me get your pap down an' in the house. 'Pap,' he dug the grave over there an' helped me bury him. I reckon 'Pap' are a good man.'' He voice trailed off into silence. The boy sat gazing in horror at the towering pine. His mother looked at him and her hand that had been twining itself in his hair was laid gently but firmly on his shoulder.
"I'm sho' powerful sorry to hurt yo' like this, Artie boy, but yo're a man now an' it hadn't ought to be kept from you. I' tellin' yo' jes' how ugly it all was, an' hurtin' yo' bad now so's it can't never hurt yo' this bad no mo'. This here is one of them things yo've got to know an' look at squar' in its ugly face.
" 'Pap,' he was the one what tole me why they got your pap. Seems like he got too much moonshine an' it kinder made him wild. Dan'l was a good enough man ginerally, but when he got too much o' that white licker he could be plumb crazy. That night he had rnor'n usual.
Comin' home from the mill he passed Mattie Ritter, Maudie's mother." The supporting arm around the boy's shoulder tightened. "The devil an' the white licker got the best o' your pap an' he stopped poor Mattie.
"She was always a timid girl, an' Alec made her carry a pistol. She drew the pistol on yer pap an' in the scrap it went off an' shot her.
" Poor Mattie! We was children together an' we went to school together in 'Pap' Upchurch's barn. It most nigh killed me, losin' her an' Dan'l both---an' like that.
"All the folks thought sure I'd go away. Jes' to live was misery for me then. Nobody would come near me, 'cept 'Pap' Upchurch. You ' d 'a thought I was a leper or somethin'. I could 'a gone away. Yo' uncle, Dan'l Martin, wanted me to come to his place an' bring yo', but I made up my mind to stay ~n• show 'em. I looked up at them hills yonder, purple and pink at sunrise an' purple an' gold at sunset, an' I knowed I could do it. 'Pap,' he's helped me a lot. It wasn't so easy at first to keep things goin', but I done it somehow.
"Artie," and she looked him straight in the eyes, "I was goin' to tell yo' tonight even if yo' hadn't asked me. I been slavin' an' savin' money all these years to give you the chance to choose. Now yo' know, mebbe yo' won't want to stay here.
"Artie, I an't got no l'arnin'. I ain't never had no chance. There's money enough fer yo' to go to school an' git some l'arnin'. I'm wantin' yo' to take it an' go, an' when yo' are eddicated, if yo' can, come back here to me an' the folks like me and l'arn us how not to hate an' kill each other. I'll stay here an' wait for you whar I can see the sun set behind them purple hills."
~bt ~ptrttof ~outb
W. F. V.
Spirit of youth, Unfettered, free, Rippling over the obstacles, As doth the 'mountain stream When loosed from the lofty heights It finds its way debarred By root and crag, But with perpetual laughter Leaps from crest to valley, Lightly tossing boulders From its path.
To thee, I tune my lyre And let its strings
Vibrate to adolescent melody, And to thy sparkling songs Invigorating as a draught From crystal springs I open wide my heart To gain eternal life.
Jnterbtewtng a ~re.stbent
WARREN G. KEITH,
'23
I tramped into Marion last summer to see Senator Harding. Tramping today is the pastime of a gentleman. He no longer must board freight cars, essay the blind baggage, or ride the rods. . In a quiet and thoroughly artistocratic manner stepping out into the thoroughfare, he hails the first automobile with an empty :Seat and rides as far as he desires. This is the model of travel to an up-to-date hobo. This style is cleaner, safer ( except, of course, when a woman is driving), and faster than any means of locomotion known to a strolling tramp.
This story is an incident from a long trip. It would ·be tedious to relate · how I came down from Halifax to Boston, then to my home in Kentucky all in that "donnez moi" attitude. From Boston I made the stages by .automobile, depending upon a sign to persuade the trav,elers to do an act of charity. This sign read thus:
"PICK ME UP: FROM HALIFAX TO LOUISVILLE."
That sign accomplished wonders. Leaving Boston :at 10 :3 A. M., Monday, August 16th, I arrived at my home sixty miles south of · Louisville at 7 :30, Sunday .evening, August 22nd. When I left Boston I had four objectives: The Berkshire Hills, Niagara, Harding, and ·home. The sign had carried me past all of these in that short time.
To dilate on the beauty of scenery, the interesting ·people, the freedom of life, and all the charms of this Bohemian living would require a more facile pen than :mine. The reveries of a hobo are full of pictures of interest, beauty and worth. Just think of what one can
see on such an exploration: a cup of tea at "The Wayside Inn"; there see and hear the old tales of Long£ ellow; stop on the peak of some hill in the Berkshires and delight in the evergreen forests studded with the white smokestacks of paper mills; pause on the Palisades of the Hudson and watch the dozing Shaker village there in the morning sun---a village quiet and sleepy, like a graveyard on a mountain side; pass through the New York towns and catch the bustle and enterprise; sleep by the lakes at night time, arising at an early hour to watch the sun brighten the rippling surface with its jewels of light; hear the roar of Niagara; roll on the beach at Angola; scent the perfume of cornfields just coming into bloom; see ---and this is best of all ---the hills, the knobs, and rocks, the sassafras bushes, the Blue Grass of "Old Kentuck," country, state, home, mother, sweetheart, friends, all in one brief week. Like a sweet dream alive with fancy lands, forms and figures, it makes one happy to recal these pictures.
It was on the 20th of August. I was coming from Fremont, Ohio, and a big burly man gave me a ride. We began a spirited conversation and soon he inquired where I was going at that time.
"To Marion to see Harding."
"To see Harding? Why they won't let you see him. He is too busy with the politicians to let anyone except the big ones in there."
"But I am going to see him."
"Here, sonny, you stay in here with me and I will take you to Delaware, and that is forty miles on the other · side of Marion."
"No; I will get out and take another machine."
This man had been one of the number who had nominated Cox, and of course thought but very little of my visit to Marion. A friendly machine carried me on into, the mecca.
What a sight! In every store window, in every home a picture of Harding! Down Mount Vernon A venue great white archways with plaster medallions of Harding stretched across the street. The end of the archways marked his home. A guard was sitting at the sidewalk.
"How is the chance of seeing Harding?"
"Good, step on in."
A plain clothes man opened the door leading into the headquarters and I stepped in. There in a narrow hallway stood . the Senator, a smile of friendliness beaming from his face. He does not stare with that cold aloofness that so many people affect.
"Hello, there, Senator!" I called out to him as if I had been his companion and life-time friend.
"Hello, boy, where did you come from?"
"From Halifax." ,
"I have been there." Then he went on to ask me about my trip and I sketched it for him.
"I am going to vote for you, Senator; I like your stand on the League of Nations."
"That is good. Were you overseas with the boys?"
"Oh, yes."
"Well, then I guess that you got enough of it over there." Then Harding called a reporter over and told him to get my story.
"Has X----gone to Columbus yet?" Some one answered, "Already gone." "Well, then, tell Johnston to take this boy down with him to Bellefontaine when he goes."
"Here, Ferd," and he called out to Ferd Parker, that great political luminary from Maine, "take this boy over to lunch."
Mr. Parker then escorted me to a car waiting out front. We were just ready to step into the machine when Harding came out on the front porch and called to me, "Wait a minute, boy, we are going to have our pictures made."
Stepping out on the lawn we stood in front of the camera. "Now you pose," he said, "my face is too ugly for that."
The picture made, I told him good-bye and how that I was going to carry on the gospel of the G. 0. P. whereever it needed preaching.
"That is good, boy, go to it."
I got my piece of political pie ( two pieces, one chocolate, the other lemon) that day at Republican headquart. ers. I could not refrain from laughing when I entered that spacious dining hall with all of its service and cost of upkeep. At the same time "the defeated one" was wailing about the reckless spending of our party.
Would you appreciate greatness, would you believe in the safety of America for the next four years? Then shake hands with Harding, see his serene face, hear his powerful but kind voice.
To Harding this was hut a mere incident; to me, one in a lifetime. It gave me a new idea of that abstract thing we call greatness. How could he with that majority of 7,000,000 votes to win stop to think of a poor vagrant? I expected to be rushed in and then frigidly ejected. In swift succession there came to him a story for his friend, the reporter ; a ride; time to listen to my story; a dinner for the hobo ; time to make a picture. There is a man for the world. Our race holds some individuals who have no greater claim to anything of pompousness than that God made them and a charitable world of Portias allow them to pass in deference to their origin. These are the snobs and the sychophants. They have no sympathy. Sympathy is the golden apple of beauty, the great virtue of the heart. Having that we grace our small sphere as Lincoln become his sphere--the world. Having not this feeling, the world calls to us for a time, then sensing our deception, calls no more. An example was recently beheld in our national life.
Harding is a man of the common people; he will not fail us. America first means sympathy for all who live under the flag of America.
One nation, America.
One people, Americans.
One flag, "Old Glory."
This pledge with Harding behind it makes America secure.
THELMA HILL, '22
Who was he who first compared something in its utter uselessness to the fifth wheel of a wagon? Was it a chance comparison, or was there not a strain of deep feeling, a flavor of philosophy in that homely smile?
I can but feel that in some unknown way, not to be understood by mortal, the author of this phrase knew of my ultimate existence and coined the expression to suit me and my unhappy experiences. I feel a deep sense of gratitude to my unknown benefactor for so aptly, so concisely describing my state. Indeed he occupies a tender spot in my heart. I have pictured him miserably unhappy, awkward and---saddest fate known to man--unwanted. Perhaps 'twas after one of his harrowing experiences that he penned those few words. A tragic sense of humor---that !
The first time I played the pathetic, useless role of the fifth wheel ( that is, the first time indelibly impressed upon my mind) was when my playmate, to whom, for years, I had been all in all, jumped rope joyously and delightedly with a strong little girl and left me standing miserable, uncomfortable and tearful on the curb stone. I told my mother in a tragic, stricken tone that Kitty did not want me anymore. She didn't need me! This proved but practice work for my later interpretation of the part. It is as nothing compared to my wretchedness of today. Time and time again have I been forced to assume this unhappy role, this strange individuality and always, always, to the best of my power, I avoid it, shun it. But the Fates ( or whatever you may it) force me, reluctant and unhappy, into the detestable position.
If I must be fifth wheel, if it is indeed my permanent role in life, let me play the part under any conditions but
that of the fifth wheel to the eternal triangle. This, beyond all others, stands out vividly, blazoned in my mem-0ry, for I have played it times without number. From my vast experience along this line, I give but one incide~t, and 'tis painful to me to write even these few bare facts. I had had this "date" with a girl friend of mine for quite a while. I had looked forward with pleasure (oh! if we could only refrain from anticipating!) to the time , for she had been away, and there was much to hear and say. It was a cool, moonlit, summer night, and I already gloried in a long walk and delightful bits of news and gossip. I was met at the door by "that man!" My smile faded and I felt myself slowly slipping into that loathed role, and I shuddered. She came and whispered persuasively, apologetically in my indignant ear, "He wants to go so badly, and he likes you, you ·know. He just said so." 'Twas more, far more, than I could say of him! I grinned diabolically, and setting my jaw, I determined to take that walk. If I had but knowri ! If I had only called up past experience! But I reasoned that he was the "buttinski," not I. We started. (It is with emotion I pen these lines.) Long silences, longer looks on their part---much jolting and grinding of teeth on the fifth wheel's part. I loathed that man beartily. His simple, smiling face made me feel criminally inclined. Every now and then a chance remark was thrown in my direction. I let it pass unheeded. I longed with a passion beyond words to the end that unbearable crawl. ('Twould be an insult to the word walk to dub it such.) Uncomfortable, useless, enraged and miserable, I suggested that we turn back ( they were oblivious to time and distance) . After tons of fury and humiliation, the end came. I almost spluttered as I growled good night. As I stoodon my porch and watched their retreatfog silhouettes, I rebelled. I vowed a mighty vow that never, never again, as long as I remained in my right mind, would I play the accursed role of fifth wheel to a
triangle. Now, if I am with the "her" of my story and the "him" makes his appearance, I dash wildly, madly out and tear breathlessly home, heaving a mighty sigh of relief as I shun the character and forcibly retain my own individuality.
It has been said that life is a stage, we the actors, and the fates the stage managers. The fates hold us by a string and direct our marionette existence. But I, the fifth-wheel marionette, have broken away from my restraining cord and inpudently, perhaps recklessly, declare myself done with the role. 'Tis said every worm will turn. I've turned.
From azure depths above, the full moon beams; A myriad stars are sprinkled there on high, ·Acress the vast dome of the winter sky--Invoking peace upon the earth, it seems. And yet my heart is rent with somber dreams Of hopeless love, and from its depths, that cry, Becoming stronger as the days go by, Defies my reason and for freedom screams. The silvery moon awakens thoughts of love, When but for her my mind might have a rest And lose itself in saner contemplation; While every star cries to me from above, And bids me speak to her whom I love best, Nor longer thus to practice resignation.
m:wo:ffltn anba ~attbtl
A. B. C., '23
The December day was gradually drawing to a close. The stinging, icy wind seemed to cut with the sharpness of a knife, and the penetrating cold increased with the approaching night. The pale, yellow sunlight still lingered on the tops of the taller buildings, and the continuous noises of the street were augmented occasionally by the moan of the wind as it whipped around the corners and through the canyon-like streets. Men, hastening homeward from their work, cast longing eyes at the windows, translucent with condensed moisture, displaying the comfortable warmth inside, and as it were, leaning against the wind, hurried on in anticipation of a good supper and a warm fire.
In the vestibule of a huge office building stood a man dressed in a shabby gray suit. No overcoat protected him from the wind, no gloves shielded his hands from the cold, nor was there ever a more disconsolate figure, as he stood, his shoulders drooping, his head resting on his chest and his hands scarcely covered by the shallow pockets of the thin coat.
Jim Martin, safe-cracker, ex-convict, was the unfortunate looking being who shivered in the doorway of that office building. Jim's confidence in the world was ebbing fast. He had sworn to go right, after his term; but the police, the everlasting police, hounded him day and night. Every employer was sure to hear his record and he was promptly fired. Why couldn't they let a man alone? He had not worked for five days; he had not eaten since yesterday morning. The increasing cold was making him desperate. There was nothing to do but return to his former occupation. Oh yes, he knew where to get the · necessary tools and there was always opportunity for
such work; but he would rather stick to the "straight and narrow." Fitst he must get some food, and a place to sleep. The piercing cold numbed his body, the swirling dust and cutting wind filled his eyes with tears. Ah! he could stand it no longer! Jim Martin was almost tempted to beg, but the arrogant nature rebelled against that, and the criminal habits of former years prompted him to more desperate plans. If an opportunity would only present itself ! Never had he been so determined to grasp the slightest chance to acquire the money necessary to feed him and to carry out his other plans.
While Martin stood deciding what he should do a man stepped quickly from the street into the vestibule. Martin started out, so accustomed was he to being "moved on" by the police. But the man stopped him. "One minute, my friend, would you like to make ten dollars!"
Martin looked up quickly and gazed into the man's face. The stranger was young, handsome and well dressed. There were lines of worry and fear in his face ---Martin had seen such before. The man's speech was jerky and he glanced constantly up and down the street.
"Sure," answered Martin, "what do you want done!"
"Take this satchel and place it on the cashier's desk in the bank on the next block!" The words were scarcely audible as a disconsolate moan of the wind covered th<; whisper. The man held up a satchel with a hand that did not tremble with the cold.
"All right," answered Martin as he grasped the satchel and glided into the street. Here was an opportunity to make enough money to buy a good supper and a place to sleep for several nights. It should not bother him why the gentleman wished the satchel to be placed on the cashier's desk. He pushed the revolving door and entered the apparently deserted bank. Suddenly the thought came to him: what is in this bag? It was not heavy, it did not rattle. Maybe it was worth more than
ten dollars! Ah! Another opportunity which he must grasp. With infinite speed thoughts concerning the probability of the contents of the satchel flashed through his brain and clearly he saw himself the victim of absorbing curiosity and desperate want.
With a glance about him Martin paused, gripped the satchel firmly and passed out of the door into the street.
Martin hurried on for several blocks, then suddenly darted into an alley. He walked slowly through the darkness until he came to a door which opened into the rear of an old hotel. Without a moment's hesitation he opened the door and bounded up a flight of stairs. A sharp knock on the door of the room nearest the steps produced a tall gray-haired man. Martin stepped into the room almost before the man recognized him.
"Hello, Jim! Didn't expect to see you son soon. When did you get back?" the man asked in a familiar tone.
"Yesterday, Doc," snapped Jim. "I haven't time to discuss that now. I think this bag has something in it worth having. We had better find out as soon as we can."
Doc came to the table on which rested a smoky lamp, and peered anxiously over Jim's shoulder. With nimble fingers, Martin released the lock and with a jerk opened the satchel. An electric spark flashed and a terrific explosion hurled the men backward through the air against walls that tottered and fell with an echoing crash, as the whole rear end of the building tumbled into a smoking mass of brick and burning wood. The noise had hardly ceased before a crowd of police and curious neighbors flocked to the demolished building. The usual investigations and reports were made. But in the midst of the brick and shattered wood-work lay two bodies scarcely recognizable in a blackened, mangled state of death.
With a glance about him Martin paused, gripped the satchel firmly and passed out of the door into the street.
He hurried on for several blocks, then suddenly darted into an alley and walked slowly through the darkness until he came to a door which opened into the rear of an old hotel. Without a moment's hesitation he bou .nded up a flight of stairs. Martin quickly turned the knob of the door nearest the steps and disappeared into the room . Old "Doc" must be out; well, it would be safe to open the satchel here. He lit the lamp, placed the bag on the table in the center of the room and quickly opened it. Something in the satchel cracked like breaking glass and Martin peered closely into the bag. He was aware of a faint, pungent odor, th~n something gripped his throat; a great weight was pressing on his chest. He could not breathe! He tried to reach ·the door, but he seemed paralyzed. The room appeared to spin around him; a buzzing sound filling his ears ; everything turned black ; he reeled and fell to the floor.
The next rooming, "Doc" opened the door and a look of amazement came over his face. A faint, pungent odor still lingered in the room and on the floor lay Jim Martin, his friend, dead !
With a glance about him Martin paused, gripped the satchel firmly and stepped into the cashier's office.
There was no one in the room and Martin breathed a sigh of relief. He quickly placed the satchel on the desk and hurried out of the building. After all, this was the best thing to do. There was no risk to run and he was sure of the ten dollars. He was glad to give up what might probably cost him his life. The chance was too great. Martin hastened up the street to the man who still stood in the doorway of the office building .. "Did you put it on the cashier's desk?" asked the man anxiously.
"Yes," answered Martin sharply. Without a word the man handed him a ten-dollar bill and went away. Martin stood for a moment gazing at the bank note, then with a satisfied look on his face, he stuffed the bill into his pocket and left the vestibule. A restaurant, with the translucent windows, proved to be his destination. A hearty meal and a good bed made him comfortable for the night.
Seven o'clock the next morning found Martin seated at a table in the little restaurant with a newspaper propped up against two glasses on the other side of the plate. He was enjoying some excellent bacon and eggs, when his eyes came across an article which brought a queer expression over his face.
"A very unusual thing happened last night at the First National Bank. A satchel, containing $45,000 in currency, was found on the cashier's desk. It will be remembered that last week one of the tellers of the First National, Robert Harlowe, disappeared with $45,000. The young man's conscience evidently got the better of him. "
LUCILLE HUDGINS, '24
Hail, thou proud scholar in thy cap and gown/ To whom vast crowds will soon bow down, and crown With laurel wreaths, and whose fair name's renown Shall echo to thy native hills and town.
Go look upon thy Alma Mater's walls
View the great statues that adorn her halls; See thy great campus and heed nature's calls To look upon thy pines and lake and waterfalls.
Her cherished walls will crumble in decay, An thou wilt fade and die sooner than they. But hopes and dreams of hers and thine will stay And broaden, deepen to Eternal Day.
If, as the moon and stars to cheer the night Reflect the fairest morning's golden light, Thou dost reflect her honor and her might And help to set this crooked world aright.
~be Jlli.sre.sptdful
JOSEPHINE TALLEY, '22
Ranny was a very little frog, but Ranny was also very naughty. Ever since the day when his tail had dropped off in the water, and Grandfather Frog had christened him Rana Pipiens Amphibia Vertebrata, he had been up to his mischievous tricks. All his relatives scolded, and some even threatened to devour him alive, but still Ranny went about his wicked way. Whenever Grandfather Frog heard of his misbehavior, which was of ten, he would make him repeat, word for word, the Ten Commandments. But Ranny didn't mind that, for he had said them so often that he could say them backwards and forwards, then start in the middle and go both ways at the same time. Many a time his Aunt Jane Turtle had threatened to snap his head off if he didn't let her along, but Ranny laughed in the Turtle lady's face, and said, "Humph, you're too fat and too slow to catch me. You couldn't even catch Snippy Snail." So Ranny continued to worry his relatives.
One fine spring morning Ran .ny felt particularly naughty. He frightened a doodle-bug so badly that the poor creature backed heels over head into the lake; he greedily swallowed up the first big earthworm that came his way, without even so much as saying "How d'y do," and he was in the act of chewing up a fly when he spied his cousin, Johhny Toad, squatting on a patch of moss, ready to spring on a big juicy spider. Ranny crept up close hebind him; and although he wasn't a bit hungry, he snatched the spider from the very jaws of Johhny Toad and gobbled it down. Johnny wrinkled up his nose in disgust and hopped away. (That's the way with all wellmannered toads; they are very peaceful wood-folk, and never quarrel with anyone.)
"Oh, you horrid, horrid Ranny," Mrs. Thrush indignantly shouted from her perch on the wild-rose bush. "I saw you steal Johnny Toad's breakfast."
"Saw oo steal b'eakfas'," chirped the Baby Thrush. "Old Lady Thrush, you needn't be talking 'bout anybody stealing," yelled back the disrespectful Ranny. "Everybody in the marsh knows that you stole Farmer Jones's wife corset-string to hang your nest up by."
"I'm going to tell your Grandfather Frog on you," screamed Mrs. Thrush, and she flew straight away to the edge of the lake and told Grandfather Frog about every bad thing that Ranny had ever done.
"Rana Pipiens Amphibia Vertebrata," croaked Grandfather Frog in terrible tones. "Come here this minute, sit on this lily leaf, and say that Fifth Commandment three hundred and fifty-five times."
Ranny hopped onto the big lily leaf, and after making a face at Mrs. Thrush, he began in a squeaky little voice: "Respect the rights of thy Grandfather Frog, thy Aunt Jane Turtle, thy cousin Johnny Toad, and all thy other relatives; and stand in awe of thy cousin, the coppercolored-spread-head-moccasin snake, that thy days may be long in the marsh that Farmer Jones owns."
At mention of the copper-colored-spread-head-moccasin snake, Ranny shuddered, and peered fearfully around him lest his terrible cousin should suddenly wiggle up behind him, and swallow him whole, for the coppercolored-spread-head-moccasin snake was the only relative in Farmer Jones's marsh that he feared.
This , morning as he sat there saying the Fifth Com1;11andment,and wondering all the while which relative he could bother next, Grus, the crane, swooped down on the edge of the lake. Not finding any fish, he began to look at himself in the water; for Grus is a very vain bird. He- twisted his long neck from side to side, then stood first on one foot, then the other.
Ranny's little black eyes snapped with mischief. He stoped saying the Fifth Commandment right in the middle of the two hundred and fifty-fifth time, and turned a somersault into the water. He stirred up so much mud that Grus couldn't see himself anymore. The angry crane flapped his wings and flew away, and Ranny crawled up on the bank and laughed.
Aunt Jane Turtle had been watching from a nearby log, where she always sunned herself. "Rana Pipiens Amphibia Verterbrata, I'm going to tell your Grandfather Frog," she scolded.
Ranny's only answer was to hop onto a toad stool, puff out his litle cheeks, and yell, "Ya-a, ya-a."
"If I could get to you, I'd snap off your head," screamed the Turtle lady, snapping her jaws together to show just how hard she could snap.
Ranny stretched out flat on his stomach, kicked his heels together, and stuck out his sharp little tongue at his Aunt Jane.
"Look out!" shrieked the Turtle lady, stretching her long neck.
But Ranny wasn't quick enough. He felt two terrible teeth clamp down on his little hind leg; and he knew that the copper - colored - spread - head - moccasin snake had him!!
"Ouch! Help!! He'll eat me alive!!!" shrieked the terrified Ranny, pulling with all his might. "Pull and be damned," hissed the snake. "Pull and be----"
"Damned" snorted the Turtle lady, diving off the log, and landing on the back of the copper-colored-spreadhead-moccasin snake, Her jaws snapped down behind the snake's head so suddenly that his mouth flew open, and Ranny, who was giving an extra hard pull, tumbled broadside into the water.
He was dreadfully frightened, and his poor little leg hurt terribly. He crawled away to the lily roots, and
52 THE MESSENGER
began to stroke his leg tenderly. In a swish of water he saw his Aunt Jane Turtle swim by, dragging with her the wiggling copper-colored-spread-head-moccasin snake. Ranny felt so relieved; for he knew that whatever the Turtle lady carried under water, never came up again.
"I reckon you won't be disrespectful to any of your relatives again," said the Turtle lady the next morning, as Ranny hobbled along the bank.
"No, ma'am," murmured Ranny as politely as any well-behaved frog should speak to his Aunt.
Mrs. Thrush had been listening. No sooner had she heard than she perched herself on the wild-rose bush and began to sing the glad news, "Ranny will never be naughty again."
"Neber aden," chirped the Baby Thrush, as Ranny hopped back into the water to bathe his little lame foot.
~twart of ~bt '.}}amp
0. K. BURNETTE, '22
My son, your dad has learned a lot along the way, Since when a lad like you, by watching every day The mighty shuffling throng which moves along
In that grim pageant known as life. And so I warn, That when you meet a maid journeying through life's morn, Beware, my son, beware if she's a vamp.
A thousand ways you may discern her, but I know Of none surpassing that which ju dges by the show Below the skirt. And yet, 'tis safe to bet That any naughty Cleo's one you think would make A nice and lovely armful, yet is wide awake. Beware, my son, beware! of such a vamp.
And watch your step around the clever little miss With rosy lips that seem to curve just right to kiss, And eyes that won't behave, but make a slave Of all that fall beneath the mystic spell they weave, For ailments she may give no doctor can relieve; Beware, my son, beware of this the vamp!
But still when all is said 'tis absolutely true A vamp to someone else may not be so to you; And yet the varied way the things display Their many subtle charms gives vamps that may entice A woman-hater! So, just hear your dad's advice: Beware, my son, beware when she's a vamp.
Alas! how many noble lives have gone to smash, How many classes failed, and what a lot of cash Is wasted for the kind that seem sublime While stroking coat lapels and looking into eyes. lust take it now or leave it, still your daddy's wise; Beware, my son, beware of any vamp.
~bt ~rittr' s Jfnctntibt
C. G. CARTER, '22
Everyone enjoys good stories, true fiction, the contact and mingling with the best writers. What is more delightful to one given to extensive reading than the careful persual of some favorite author's best work? The reader experiences a peculiar pleasure by thoroughly digesting and absorbing the author's thought, and seeing the outstanding truth. It is the reader's satisfaction when the details and the thread of the story have been harmonious throughout. Indeed, the lingering joy of reminiscence is the reader's, when the story terminates to his personal liking and satisfaction. When we are in perfect accord with the writer, when our thought and his thought move in the same channel, then our enjoyment of the writer's work is continuous, constant and uninterrupted. When this fact is concluded by the reader, then of course the writer's work is naturally enjoyed without a doubt. With enjoyment as the resultant of reading, what need is there for further inquiry or investigation on the part of the reader? Why should the reader consider and meditate upon the why and wherefore of the writer's work?
There are some individuals who accept the good, the delightful and the pleasant things of life without much though or inquiry. At the present time it is ,evident that the Southern darkey still enjoys the warm Virginia sunshine, yet like their previous ancestors very few bother themselves -as to why the sun shines and what keeps it in space. It is characteristic of the darkey generally to accept the good and the delightful as it is actually presented, the nature and composition of the inward structure requires no minute study on their part. This trait, namely to be a participant and recipient of all good
things, was in vogue in days past. The Epicureans ate, drank and were merry much to their own enjoyment and permitted the tomorrow to take care of itself. Enjoyment may be had without searching out all the factors and processes. For instance, it is not necessary for an individual to be concerned about the fruit tree always; the real enjoyment is experienced by the eating of the fruit.
There are other individuals who accept the good, the delightful and the pleasant, yet they prefer to go further and ascertain the original why and wherefore of it all. Their inquisitive natures demand satisfaction, though the demand is not always answered, neither is the investigative nature appeased. This trait manifests itself in individuals because of their personal desire to feel assured that the ground being trodden upon is firm, that there is a permanency of the evident truth, and no sudden breaking away or instant vanishing of the whole will ensue. This comfort and ease of feeling is exemplified by the negro parson who was invited out to Sunday dinner on one occasion by Brudder Jones. The colored preacher was certainly surprised to see the elaborate chicken dinner which had been prepared. Knowing Brudder Jones to be a church member of very scanty means, the colored preacher naturally wondered where he could have obtained such a rich bounty. After returning grace the preacher interrogated his parishoner thusly, "Brudder Jones, where'd you get this good chic'en from?"
Brother Jones was completely taken back by this question, but quickly regaining his self-composure in a short interval, replied, "Look hyah, Brudder Parson, when you happens to preach a good sermon does I ax you wharbouts you gotten it from?" "
Some readers have more than a casual interest in a writer; they not only enjoy his work, but they seek to understand the inner working of the writer, and to ascertain from what source he obtained his material.
Should the incentive of the writer concern the individual? For a better understanding and deeper appreciation of the writer it certainly should. The reader may enjoy the writer without seeking to thresh out his incentive and motive. Yet to be surer of our admiration and esteem to get acquainted upon more personal terms, we must know something of the impelling and prompting force, the innate throbbing of the ideal being---in short, the writer's incentive.
Incentive to write is natural, the prompting caused by the innate self. As it is natural for ducks to take to w·ater so it is natural for writers to write. But this is nothing more than a casual statement of fact. Granted it is natural for writers to write fiction, prose, poems and other literary forms, what is the truth that underlies this naturalness?
The first truth then for this naturalness, for this incentive to write, is the experiencing nature. How true and how applicable is the phrase, "Experience is the best teacher." Clayton Hamilton says, "The experiencing nature is difficult to define, but two of its most evident qualities are a lively curiosity and a ready sympathy." The experiencing nature covers every walk of life; it embodies all the great truths of life. The writer who experiences these great truths naturally desires to share them with others. When the poet sees the beauties of nature, his inward flow of feeling and thought cannot be suppressed, but bubbling over, they give rise to expression. Like the everlasting flow of the life-giving spring the poet's truths flow on, and we drink to our soul's contentment. Very few people have this experiencing nature, and naturally there is no impelling force to set forth any great truths. Certainly a life of daily routine, of daily grind, cannot experience this broad nature. What does an ordinary laborer see in the sunset? Certainly not the beauty of the cloud-bedecked gorgeous colored sky, which no artist can reproduce on canvas.
Rather, the tired and exhausted soul sees in the sunset ihe end of the day's work, a rest of a few hours and then .again the grind of another day. Many individuals exist instead of live, consequently the absence of an experiencing nature. The person who really lives is the one who ·takes time to enjoy nature, who possesses a keen curiosity .and sympathy in all things. The ability to live and experience is with the individual. It is the ego alone, ourselves individually, who must see the truths of life. The enjoyment which comes to us must be ours personally, ·must be to our soul's own liking. We are not necessarily ,compelled to go with a crowd or to be gregarious in order to perceive the greater truths. Like Kipling, we must cultivate a ready sympathy and a keen curiosity for all ·1ands and people. With such sympathy the prompting ,spirit will make us reveal the truth. · Incentive to write is further aided by wide spread .appreciation. The ability of others to appr;eciate truth .and literary productions is of great importance to the writer. . This appreciation, this exchange of ideas for ·greater knowledge among writers, is the greatest incentive. The purpose of the individual . in writing fiction, ·poetry or any other literary work is not to dazzle or to shine forth as a meteor. The writer's purpose in the ·main should be controlled by the desire to be appreciated, · ·especially by others who are sometimes equally as gifted ·in the same art. Not to be appreciated by others would ·take away the real enjoyment, because in reality the writer's sole object is not to write for himself, but to :write for others. "The gift without the giver is bare." .Most writers earnestly desire that we share their truths, ·their appreciation and their knowledge, consequently ·they give these values to us in the form of writing. If -readers then realize the writer's incentive, what can mar ·their enjoyment and appreciation? No opposite faction -can stand between the reader and writer when the feel.ing of friendship and appreciation is mutual. When the
bond of friendship is firmly united between the writer and the reader, then it is that the reader seeks to obtain more of the writer's reavling faculty, and with high admiration, the reader feels a desire to call the writer out from his woodland seclusion or personal haunt . The reader feels as though he would like very much to converse with the writer upon subjects equally appreciated by them both. In this case the reader's enthusiasm would be somewhat akin to that of Theodore Roosevelt's when he , because of appreciation for a certain friend many miles distant, sent his friend word to come to see him; he desired to talk with him. The greater incentive is the · writer's joy which comes from being appreciated. The greater peace and comfort come to the writer not because he sees a few truths, but because he thinks he makes others see them in the same form and semblance as they appear to him. Some individuals would much pref er to hear the clear, sweet-sounding laugh of their fair one than to engage in the loud guffaw themselves. The writer has somewhat the same kind of a preference. Writers are incited and encouraged to write because they prefer to see others appreciate the truth rather than solely appreciate it themselves. Life is joyous and worth living when the writer has made a host of appreciative and admiring friends. Then it may be said that the writer feels as though
"He lives for those who love him, Whose hearts are kind and true, For the dear God above him Who awaits his spirit, too."
Then there is a prompting incentive which compels. writers to write, which is instinctive and innate in its nature. It is somewhat akin to the wanderlust spirit which the adventurer possesses. Just as a certain instinct or premonition prompts the birds to fly southward to a tropical climate in the fall, so it is that a certain innate · feeling impels the writer to give vent to his thoughts by ·
means of letters. This feeling is difficult to describe or define. It is experienced more than perceived. The feeling resembles the vitality in our bodies with the respect that it is present within us. This inward feeling has to be awakened or else it will be a dormant thing forever. It is spring which awakens the life of the trees and the birds or else they would never have such a throbbing life. Spring is the season which brings the return of sunshine, rain and warmth. Something awakens the feeling of expression which is within our souls. Yet what is this something? It is not a chemical process which is capable of being analyzed into various elements. In fact, this something is not tangible or visible at all, yet it is discernible because of the prompting and awakening feeling. This incentive feeling of promptness cannot be set off and labelled. The name for it cannot be had, as the feeling is more or less a part of the soul. It cannot be extracted or separated from our being. If this instinctive feeling is within our souls it must remain deep-rooted, incapable of separation. And the individual must be satisfied with the knowledge that such an innate incentive exists within the writer and ever hope for the awakening which will prompt a steady flow of truthful expression.
m'.oJlorotbea
H. W. C., '22
I would that I might call thee mine, Dorothea.
To thee I fain would pen a line, Dorothea. i If I might tell thee of my.love, Inspired, it seems, by heaven above My heart from thine should never rove, Dorothea.
I love those raven locks of thine, Dorothea, Which lend delight to every line, Dorothea.
Though some admire the golden hair And fia:cen curls, I do not care, There is not one who can compare With Dorothea.
I love to look into thine eyes, Dorothea.
My love protrays itself in sighs, Dorothea.
As stars they bear celestial fire Which ever strengthen my desire To simply gaze and to admire Dorothea.
I cannot find a sweet face, Dorothea, Than thine protraying every grace, Dorothea. There's beauty deep in every line, Giving to thee a grace divine, When beauty doth with grace combine, That's Dorothea.
I hear the sound of melody, Dorothea, The sweetest murmured harmony, Dorothea.
It is thy voice in accent sweet, A voice angels fain would repeat With love and ecstacy complete, Dorothea.
To thee my heart goes out each day, Dorothea,
My heart is sad when thou'rt away, Dorothea.
And ever as thy face I see Those precious hours come back to me When, I have simply looked at thee, Dorothea.
Words cannot tell thee all I feel, Dorothea.
Before thy throne I humbly kneel, Dorothea. Could Muses nine and Graces three Be fused with sweetest harmony That creature should be Dorothy, Sweet Dorothea.
J.E. W., '23
Inside there was light and laughter, music and the glide of feet on a glassy floor; outside there was the garden, moist and sweet with the fragrance of roses under a heavy dew. A girl in misty white stood in the garden path by one of the rosebushes, her eyes on the open windows whence the light and music came. She shivered a little and drew her fluffy wrap closer about her white shoulders. She lifted her eyes for a moment toward the sky---and sighed. Even the night seemed dressed for some festivity, jeweled with its myriads of stars .and a great, bright moon. The figure in white bent suddenly and pressed her face against a great red rose. velvet black in the moonlight, then turned swiftly and hurried up the path toward the house. Something larger and brighter than a dew-drop shone on the petals of the rose she had kissed.
The little white figure ascended the steps and crossed to a far end of the veranda, to a spot sheltered and darkened by a rambler vine. Her dainty slippers were wet and her feet were quite cold, but it did not matter; she would not be dancing. She bit her lip and clinched her little hands fiercely, rebelliously.
The clatter of the drum and the moaning of the saxaphone jazzed out through the open window; she could see the many couples, laughing and flirting and whirling, whirling in the dance. And as she watched them with angry eyes a tall, handsome stranger separated himself from the throng and strolled out on the veranda. He had turned her way and was coming slowly but surely toward her. She shrank back into the corner, out of the light from within; retreat was almost impossible---and rather silly, she thought. He was no bear, to chew her up. He was walking with bent head as though deep in thought.
A moonbeam strayed through the rose vine and flashed the gleam of it straight into the downcast eyes of the man---and he raised his head quickly. He afterwards tried to remember whether or not he rubbed his eyes. Such a vision! The vision had eyes like great stars---yet they were not as calm as stars, hair that must be gold and bronze and brown in the light---hair just now covered by a mantilla exquisitely wrought of silver moonbeams and velvet shadows, a tiny, slender figure and hands that fluttered like white moths in the dim ·light. Those strange, rebellious eyes were looking at him unwaveringly.
Tossing aside all conventionalities, he took a quick step forward and stood gazing down at her. She was so small ! Was she woman or child?
"Pardon me, but---you do not seem to remember me. My name is Richard Brewster. Don't you remember now?"
She shook her head slowly, her strange dark eyes unflinching.
"I am sorry, but I suppose you met so many people." No answer.
"You won't mind if I stay and talk to you a few minutes, will you? Oh, please say you won't!"
She dropped her eyes at last. His next words were low and gentle.
"Do you know, you are very, very lovely---Shadowy Girl. I am so glad I found you. There isn't a single one in there anything like you. I was fearfully bored. Tell me, what is your name?" Silence. She was bewitching, exasperating. He bent closer and she felt his breath hot upon her cheek. She turned to flee---his arm barred her way.
"Oh, you aren't going l Surely you're not afraid of me. And besides, I found you here all alone. Why won't you speak to me?"
Suddenly she lifted her head and looked full into his eager eyes. A queer little smile ( was it sarcasm?)
twisted her lips for a moment and was gone. It m2tddened him. He forgot everything, everything except the nearness of her. He caught her in his arms and for ~a moment the world went on without them, then swift a\ a flash she had wrenched herself free and was gon ¢, utterly, .completely gone. Where had she disappeared? He could not tell; the suddenness of it made him dizt y and a bit angry. He searched every corner of the b ~g veranda, but in vain. He hunted in the dew-soa ¥ ed garden ; she was not there. /
"What's up, Dick, old top? You look sort of dlpwn and out, boy." Bob Penn slapped his friend on ! the shoulder as he put the question. Dick Brewster 1 0ked like the chief mourner at a funeral.
"Bob, look here. Did you meet a little tiny gtrl all dressed in white stuff, with great big eyes and a lb t of lovely hair?"
"I've met several ·people who might fit that de cription, especially with a 'lot' of hair," answered Bob l · ughingly. ·
"Well, you needn't joke about it. I'm serious for once in my life. (Dick was always "serious" at the~·ght moment.) She was a peach, and now she's gone. tell you, Bob, I'm in love with her," growled Dick sav ely. "Well, you needn't take my head off. · Was she pretty?"
"A raving beauty! Have you met any?" l .
"Well, I did meet a little girl with big violet eye and beautiful hair, but she only smiled when we were •ntroduced and she slipped away before I could ask her for a dance. Did you dance with her?" I
"No, that is---I met her under rather peculiar circumstances. In fact, I don't even know her name. ~ht she's some peach." /
"Well," said Bob, "the girl I met was Mrs. Sanford's niece and her name was Constance Clifford. Funny, but
I haven't seen her anywhere around since I met her. Where did you meet her ?"
But just then Dick seemed very anxious to dance and he studiously avoided his pal the rest of the evening. He was devoutly thankful when he could bid his hostess farewell.
III.
A girl with bronze hair and violet eyes knelt at her open window watching the dawn flame up. Her face was as white as the rumpled gown she wore and her eyes were brighter than the dawn, with a hard tearless brightness. She had not even undressed, only loosed her hair which fell in soft, tangled curls over her shoulders. She was wondering why she had ever come. Aunt Ruth was very kind and sweet, but why did she have to have the big party that night? The introduction had terrified Constance. She knew Aunt Ruth would scold her for slipping away as she had done, but she couldn't have endured it any longer. And then she had met him there in the darkness. He had kissed her and said, "I love you." A queer little moan burst from her lips, but she could not weep. Constance---oh, it was irony to have that name. To live up to it she should have to be constant to a memory, for never again could that awful, wonderful night be repeated. The white-faced girl offered up a silent prayer that her love would IIake her tender toward all instead of bitter. But it was hard now. She closed her eyes and felt once more his burning kiss. He had meant it then; for the moment he had loved her. She had seen the fire in his eyes, heard it in hi. voice. And because of it she could not tell him, she could only go back home and try to forget! Suddenly came the blessed relief of tears.
* * * * * * *
Brewster, too, had not undressed. He had come in and thrown himself in his big armchair before the window. He, too, saw the dawn, but took no heed of it.
Constance Clifford l Her name was lovely like her face. He must, he would find her! He was not going to have her for that moment only to lose her. Strange he hadn't heard of her arrival. She must be the rage of society. Mrs. Sanford's niece! Well, Mrs. Sanford had a darn good right to be proud of such a niece. Unconsciously, Dick wrote "Constance Brewster" on his cuff, then felt like a fool.
IV.
Dick was going calling. Rather a prompt party-call, but he couldn't run the risk of her leaving. When he reached the big house it seemed quite deserted; his heart sank. Then from somewhere he heard music and stealthily he crept around the long porch until he was just opposite the window of the music room. What he saw made his heart bound into his throat. At the piano, full in the so£t radiance of a floor lamp, her hands on the ivory keys, sat the girl he loved. One of the French windo\l\:s was open and Dick stepped noiselessly into the room. They were alone. He stood for a moment drink"'. ing in her beauty, the lights in her hair, the rose and white tints of her skin. She wore a soft chi ffon dress of deep rose color which made her skin almost startingly white.
"Constance l" His voice rang through the room. The girl at the piano sprang up to her feet, her eyes flaming, her color fleeing from her cheeks. He came forward swiftly, his hand outstretched.
·
"You can't run away this time. I've found out your name now and all about you, so you see if you did escape, I could trace you. And anyway---! love you."
So he knew. He knew, and still he wanted her. Oh, God was kind to her. She did not deserve such happiness as this. She swayed a little and he caught her hands to keep her from falling.
"Speak to me, Constance," he demanded, almost fiercely. "Speak l" She recoiled as though he had struck her in the face, snatched her hands free. All his life he
was to remember her eyes, wide, terror-stricken, full of anguish. Slowly, lifelessly she sank to the piano-bench; once more the strange little moan burst from her lips.
"Constance, what is it! What have I done! Tell me, tell me," he cried, trying to take her hands, but she waved him away, and without knowing why, he obeyed. For seconds she sat motionless, fighting desperately for selfcontrol. At last she raised her eyes---calmly now---and met his own. She raised her fingers and placed them on her red lips---and shook her head.
He caught his breath sharply, his face went white. "What do you mean?" he cried. "Do you mean--oh, you can't mean that you cannot speak!" She nodded her head. He was making it almost unbearable for her. "You will never be able to speak?" The girl with the mute lips shook her head as she got to her feet and crossed the room. At the door she turned and looked at him once more, her eyes no longer calm, but blazing with scorn. They seemed to scorch his very soul and he dropped his head. But he let her go without a word and then he crept out again through the French windpw into darkness. As he went through the gate a leaf brushed against his hand and left a great dew-drop on it---like the tear of a maid.
...frtt l'trst
When the radiator leaks and sputters
And I have to sit on it to keep it warm And we have fish-roe for breakfast And the milk is sour · Then I decide that The fool who thought of educating wo nen Ought to be hung
And that "Woman's place is in the home."
-M.A. S., '23.
Life is an organ
On whose bench
We are placed unconsciously To touch the keys And if by chance
We strike a glorious chord The world thrills And bows in worship With eager outstretched hands For more.
-B. E. D., '23.
A
.MARCH MORNING
Again and yet again Heaven's Candle is blown out, Yet shines once more Through cloud-smoked blue.
-!. E. W., '23.
NIGHTFALL
O'er the gray shores of Twilight, A dark sea rushes in, Its foam-lit waves are stars.
-J.E. W., '23.
· The wars are candy colored beads
Time strings upon a cord And mumbles o'er them as monks do their rosaries In silent cloisters where the sun sifts through. Time laughs to see men grab the brightest days And shun the dark, plain colored ones, For after all when all men's lives are through What are the years but prisms, Flashing in the light, And each one shows a myriad different hues.
-M. Norment, '23.
~bttortal
In taking up the editorship of THE MESSENGERwe, the new staff, are not unmindful of the honor con£erred upon us, nor are we indifferent to the responsibilities . we assume. This position has been filled by the Salu- nation's brightest and best. Here they have tation found an arena for developing their talents for art, poetry, science and history. They have made for themselves and for THE MESSENGERan honorable record. With this issue we take up the mantle which they have honorably laid down. In so doing, we are conscious of the fact that this is the monthly journal of the student body of the University of Richmond, one of the greatest institutions in the land, whose enviable history covers more than three-quarters of a century of remarkable achievements, and whose future is as full of promise as is the dawning of a new day. The prospect inspires us with an ambition to be of real service.
A short while before Albert Sidney Johnston was mortally wounded on Shiloh's bloody battlefield he said to a young officer: "Captain, I have a diffcult post to command. If I have a man who can hold this post, you are the man; but it is fraught with so much danger that I shall not impose it upon you, unless you are willing to undertake it.' The immediate reply was: "General, I seek not a soft place for ease, nor a hard place for glory; give me the order for the troops and I will do the best I can."
He and his men held that post. Years later when that young captain sought election as United States Senator from Mississippi the words of General Johnston rang through every newspaper in Mississippi, and that gallant captain, E. C. Walthall, was elected to the United States
Senate, where, for twenty-two years, he served with dignity and honor.
Just so we do not a~cept this office as a "soft place fot ease, nor as a hard place for glory." We yield ourselves for service to Alma Mater, and, with sincere pleasure, anticipate the hearty and helpful co-operation of our as- . sociates in the University of Richmond, as well as the delightful fellowship with the editors and associates of similar journals in other institutions.
The Lesbian Herald for February contains two good poems; "A Lyric," by Laurice Jean White is an exchanting bit of verse , and the " Trials of Yesterday" expresses the optimistic idea that "Today will soon be yesterday." "Mrs. Knouse Plans a Wedding" is a rather good character story. "Within the Living" is a quite successful attempt at gruesomeness. " The Theme Box" is very clev er and the article on " V o,cations for Girls and Women" is excellent.
•
In The Wellesley College Magazine "Woodrow Wilson" and the "Picture Above My Desk" are the two best poems. The magazine is as usual one of the best we have received. "Club," "Katherine," "The Aunties" and "Practical Mary and Sensible Charles" are all clever and delightful character sketches, but might we suggest that to have four articles, of so much the same type in one issue , is a wee bit over doding the thing?
The Editorial on the Intercollegiate Magazine Plan is very interesting. We are most distressed at the sad ending of little I. M. and hope for his return in the future. We eagerly await the annual issue of the Intercollegiate magazine.
"Those Girlish Girls" is a most astonishing article to say the least. We hardly know what to say about it. If that is the way the author really feels about it we are sorry for her. Think how much she misses in life! Things which would not necessarily exclude her intellectual and academic persuits, but rather make them richer and deeper. Cannot one offer one's friend an idea at a fudge party?
•
The Acorn stores are rather prep-schoolish. Some of the verses are a little better, but there is no poetry.
