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 lhe college, and contributions are solicited from all students, whether society members or not. A JOINT WRITER'S MEDAL, valued at twenty-five dollars, will 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.
"&moltt6crttn~"
C. N. SNEAD, '23
It was cold outside, and the night was black, But a fire burned bright in a little log shack, Where a man sat alone in a soft-bottom chair, At peaee with the world, and its troublous care.
He held a book in his hand , and with a smoke-jacket on1 Half reclined as he read, while a soft glow shone From a lamp on .a table, and he had no regret, As the smoke curled up f1:om his good cigarette.
He closed up th? book as he laid his head back, And he stretch ed out hi.yfeet towards the fir? as he fat In his soft-bottom chair, and a sweet voice spoke Through the littl? grey rings of his cigarette srrioke.
Then an elfiph /9rm s,eeme<J,to gather itself Into shape as though formed by a fairy-li_ke elf, From the slow twisting threads and spiralling wreaths, That floated like fleece in a soft spring breeze.
And a nymph-like face seemed to smile throu_ghthe maze Deep down through the soul of the man, and the gaze Of her bright blue eyes, aye, eyes so rare; Spoke love to the man in his soft-bottom chair.
Then the elfish form and his twinkling eyes Disappeared from view, as the sun in the skies Sinks slowly from sight, and the end of the day Fades on into dusk, with its tinge of grey:
And the night wa~ cold, but the room was warm, For a fire still burned in the little log home, Arid the r,ian, ,as he sat in his ,spft.,..bottorri.chair, Knew a pecret fr9m th? cig<;1,rett~smoke in, the air.
Jlumbtr 3918
T. S. RAG,22
Ten years is a long , long time any way you look at it ~ Even we, who have diversions all around us, find it allt appalling stretch of time when we stop to think about it, which is something we don't very often do. Since we, comparatively free in our actions, feel that way about it, imagine if you can how it would be to live in the future · for ten long years. Ten years without a glimmer of hopeuntil they are over. Ten years of counting months and . weeks and days and hours as one more short interval of suffering subtracted from the total. Then days becomemonths, years become centuries and ten years an eternity. Number 3918 had served seven years of his eternity of time. He did not think of his remaining time as threeyears. He had ceased to reckon in years long ago and . lived stolidly day by day. He had almost schooled himself not to think at all, but memory is a hard task-master. The days were easy enough, for then came the blessed. relief of work, but the nights were made hideous by thought. It had made of him an old man long before his time; his hair was graying at the temples and his eyes were hard and lusterless.
For seven years he had been known by a number, and he had begun to think of himself as a number and nothing · mor e. His name does n ot matt er , for he is typical of many. Nor does his offense against society concern us. He protested to the end his innocence, but a jury of smugburghers, who were thinking of home and a good dinner, said he was guilty. So it was. He was guilty in the eyesof the law and the world, and ten years in prison was his punishment. Seven had dragged · by on leaden feet . Three were left to be endured.
It was a day in September, when the year was reluctantly losing its hold on summer and shivering miserably
before the first onslaught of winter. Dusk deepened slowly into darkness and the chill wind from the open sea whipped the bay water into miniature waves. Clouds scudded across the moon as if they, too, were frightened and were making for the South and the warmth of Southern skies. Number 3918 stood at his barred window and watched, as he had many times before, the lights of the city begin to shine through the gathering gloom. The cold and desolate outlook matched the coldness and desolation of his own heart. On his right he could see the damp gray walls of one of the prison wings rising up from the rocky island. The wind whistled weirdly about the little refuge of outcasts. The waves lapped, now loudly, now softly, against the rocks a sad requien1 for the men who had here done penance, but were now gone. Dim lights shone in the sentry boxes along the wall and solitary guards passed regularly to and fro, the sound of their steps coming fitfully as the wind rose artd fell.
But the friendly gleam of lights far across the bay held his attention as always. There men revelled and played and danced and sang even as he had done years ago. How many years? He did not know. He did not care. His sentence must last forever, he thought. Something today had stirred sleeping memories, and try as he would nothing could lull them t9 sleep again. All the bitterness of years of repression welled up in his heart until he felt that it would burst. All the longing for the things that once were shook him with its strength and left him weak and trembling. Tears blurred his eyes and he dashed them away impatiently.
There, far to the left, he saw the lighted tower o(th~ Ferry Building. How often h~ had passed through it with his. friends-, light-hearted, happy ,, on his way to a nightly revel. He hardly knew thm. that there was a prison out there in the bay. And . afterward there were his baclidor quarters out on the heights wit& hi-s man:
and a soft bed and all the luxuries that his heart could desire. How little he appreciated them then. How he longed for them now. To think of a clean body, of soft linen, of immaculate clothes, was the keenest regret. Involuntarily he glanced down at his striped prison garments and his flesh crawled under the rasp of the rough material. His hands grasped the bars of the window until his knuckles showed white under the skin.
There, too, he fancied he saw the flashing lights of the Orpheum. He did not know whether or not it still existed. What times he had had there. The music, the lights, the play, and ·the well-dressed, contented people. And the women. Ah! keenest pang of all, the ~omen. There had been one --- he wondered if she remembered. And still he hoped she had never learned what had become of him. Vain longing! For what women would ever look at him now. The prison marks, he felt, had seared his very soul and would stay there forever. His head dropped on his arms and a sob shook the bent shoulders. For he was only a boy in years and his lonely heart, almost wrung dry of all emotion, yearned for the comfort of a hand that he could never know.
Weary at last he turned away from the gimpse of fairyland that the window afforded and stumbled to his hard pallet. The moon, for a moment, broke from its screen of clouds and shone softly upon the man's face. The hard lines were erased and a pathetic wistfullness was there, heightened by the marks of tears.
Silence was supreme. The man thought he had nev~r known the place to be so still before. The awful reality of the damp cold stones of the cell pressed upon his consciousness until he almost cried aloud for relief. His position was hopeless. Why not end it all in some way. He listened. Somewhere within the walls the drip, drip of water sounded with the regularity of a clock. He had heard it before, but never so distinctly as now. He listened for every drop. His ears became sharpened, his
nerves taut and strained. His mind magnified the time between each drop until it seemed an eternity: drip--drop---drip. Slowly, regularly, seemingly inexorable as Fate each drop sounded clearly. Drip---drop---drop--drip. It seemed beating upon his very brain. His head became confused, blank. Had he heard the last drop ? Had it dropped or was his mind going? His senses reeled and a roaring sounded in his ears. He seemed falling, falling away into a vast pit of blackness and after droppi~g for several eons more or less he sank into unconsciousness.
He woke in the cold gray dawn to hear the turnkey rattling his door. He rose and made ready to be led away for another day in the jute mill. He was glad day had come. He welcomed the relief of work. But to his surprise he was taken to the warden's office instead. His m~nd, so long schooled to one routine, became muddled and he heard incoherent words, out of which he gathered only two "pardon ---freedom." The truth dawned on him at last and the joy almost thawed his heart, ·frozen ·by seven years of suffering. But not quite. Time might accomplish that.
The noon boat took him away and set him down on the mainland a free man. The excitement made him feel young again. But no one would ever have thought so by looking at him. Dressed in a shoddy ready-made suit and with the prison pallor on his cheeks his plight wa~ easily recognizable. He had five dollars in his pocket that the State had given him to startlife anew. But he need not worry about money. He had left enough in the bank to keep him going for some time. And to the bank he started.
He felt strangely lost and sel-f:-conscious. He wondered if people could tell that he had been in prison and he shuffled along the sidewalk fearfully. The sight of a policeman made his heart jump witli something akin to terror. He was hesitant, too, and undecided. He had
not .thought .for; himselfd or: so lon~ that -h¢; c0,tdd not 1 do so -now. 'Tihe.noise ..an.d:.i~Qa,r,Qf the street frigh;t~n~ him. A street car appr.oaahi:..ng,a .bl0.ck_away, held hiw gb.1~~,-to . the , sille--w.;tlk. un t ih it ha8 "pas.se.d. . He , hact to • waj.k £.pr down the busy;· st11eetwl\<tre the traffi .G : wafi, slight bef 9ne he could., muster:coJJr-.age . to c.ross.. Ln.ta short. time .he .was in a state of a:bject fear.. He. cQuldt nPt fpre~ . hi,:nse1£to braae up and face the . c.rQwd. He folt himself to he marked , and \ shame dyed .his ·face crimson. Ho,w he ev~r found his bank and: after - th<J.ta, room11 ,e could not tell~ Time after time he wished himself back in his quiet cell o,n, the .prison island 1
For : thr,e.e_mon.thss the old.-time, Number 3918 tried to take up .th~ oldstran.d& o.f his.li:£e;and weave again , a simi-:lar skein . of ex..istena.e. But .he: had. forgptten the pcl,ttern. filis grip .on life-.:had .JbQ&ened;.ht could :not .face the -w:orld; he .could n.ot.meet . and bear ·its ,tort,uring . exig~ncies .. He couJd:notfac e hi,s own. cl<l,s s o,£.,p~opl~. He , w~s mprally incompet~nt , nQW,:
And ' so . he gaw.e , up the battle. Tlie - daylight knew him , less . and hiss·iand the night mor:e and more. The underworld became his world and its people his people. I r, did ·not : cpm~ ab o,ut .wit.lwuP a : figµt. F@r he did •try. Oh:, how · h~:trie .d. B,t,.tweaken .ed by: his .s~v.<m i ~ear:s of men-tat and tlJ.Qr,al.inactivity; it was a lQsing fig~t. And wh~n 1the water did \ close ov.er his. head, ,it was fo11<wer.
A night .in January . markedJ ,thq beginning ·or the end for : Number : 39,18:- Me had d11ifted into ,an underworld caba!'et. He was . depressed ·lately and · sqmetimes ,.had ·.a suffocacing fe~ling; about ·his ·heart. . H~ sat there =gazing dull~ , about, paying little , attention, to , anything. Pres-ently a high argument at a nearby table attracted · his i:-o.vfog,,attentiG11 . Me: watche~t unintereste.d1. He. saw on,e ma:o.ref\ch : fQr his, p.oJ:k~t. 'Fh(lre 1w.a~ : a · repp_rt oi.: a pistol -.a1,1d _ another: man : spnawl~d gro~sqµelk ·OR thittfiom1. 'Ithe- instjnQt ·.o,f .N ttmpen ,39,-18:;was . to ,g~ti.a wau.. H-e.:.nan fori the st;,.i_r,s , and 1.intP1,th~i armti: 0£ .a,,desctndii;lg police:-
man who had heard the shot. None of the onlookers offered any word in his behalf and he was taken away. At last he saw a way out of his unenviable plight. Anything would be better than the ·purposeless existence that he was leading. If he could only get back to the quiet of his cell and ·the peace of ·a life ·where ' he did .not have to think for himself. Should he do 'it? Silently he made his decision.
His Honor, the judge, was irascible that morning. "It would be best, my man, if ,you would plead guilty," he growled. Number 3918 said ,nothing. He was tried and sentenced to life imprisonment for manslaughter. He was happy.
How homelike the gray walls looked to him as he entered again the place that once had been a prison, but now was a haven. The warden was evidently not surprise? to see him back because he was used to back-sliders m cnme.
That night he stood again at his barred window watching the lights of the city and listening to the soothing wish-wash of the waves. There were no lines of pain in his face now and no longing look for things that might have been. A film passed before his eyes, but it was not of tears. The lights of the city paled to fairy lamps, ghost-like and of ethereal beauty. He could not see as he groped his way to his bed. He lay down and listened for the dripping of the water within the walls. But he could not hear it. Again he was ·falling, falling through blackness, but far away he seemed to see a beautiful light that was the breaking of no earthly dawn. His arm lifted spasdomically and his hand clutched at his heart. Then he was still. The moon peeped in once again as if to welcome the returned wanderer and lighted up a face that held all of peace and nothing now of pain and trouble. Then it was covered again and the soul of Number 3918 flitted away among the scudding clouds to the South and the warmth of another clime.
<!Creation
WARREN G. KEITH, 23
In solitude austere and deep
The tall bleak mountains rise, Their cold gray naked roughness
Silhouetted against the skies.
White capped are the boisterous billows
Far out on the deep's blue way
Darting and dashing toward the sky
High winds the surging spray.
The bright-hued palette of the sun
Adorns the evening sky, A flaming sheen of colors dart Toward night a crimson defy.
Nestled warmly at mother's breast
A smiling infant lies: He croons a song of innocence
Twinkling his sparkling eyes.
In his dimpled face is traced
The same as in mountain gray; Or pictured bright at sunset's light; Or shown on tossing sea.
So fresh, so pure from the hand of God
Are these, majestic creation
Untouched, unchanged by the ways of man They show Him in perfection.
@nip @nt Wap
THELMA HILL, '22
''And you say Lawson was convicted of embezzlement and sentenced according to the strict letter of the law?"
"Convicted? Yes. Sentenced? Of course! The jury was out four hours and twenty minutes. It was a hot argument, I hear, but finally right prevailed. It has been one of the most interesting cases of my career onthe bench, and-----."
"Right prevailed? Ah, Judge, but did right prevail?"
"Why, my dear man !" The judge, small and alert, stared with a surprised incredulous look and paused.
"Did right prevail---and what is right?" again demanded the mellow voice, filled with suppressed feeling. The speaker leaned slightly forward in his deep chair and searched the face of his friend. His long, tapering, white hands hung, loosely clasped, between his knees. He waited.
"Yes, to your odd query, Everett, most decidedly! Not only in the eyes of law and justice, but also in the eyes of God and man. The case is clear and childishly simple. There was only one outcome. He was trusted; he stole; he broke his trust; he was found out, convicted, and sentenced."
For an instant, John Everett's eyes closed as if from physical pain, and he leaned back with a slight sigh.
"And did the court consider the circumstances? Did you know, or did you care to learn the tragic cause of his ---his ---theft? Did you look beneath the external veneer of crime with which the public has so quickly stained him? Did you," his beautiful eyes glowed and seemed to burn int~ those of his listener, "Did you ever consider him as he really was, unfortunate, wretched, driven to the wall? Did you realize his belief that he
could pay it back? Did you ever give him an ounce of pity for his misery and di~appointment? No, not once!"
Judge Carlyle gasped and frowned slightly as the speaker continued.
"You have never felt the unutterable longing, the allabsorbing desire to possess son:iething beyond your means. You have never known the merciless temptation, the overpowering strength of it. Ah! Judge, you were born and reared in the lap of luxury, and you don't know, you can't realize; you have never felt the humiliation, the desperation of poverty. Look at me. Look at my surroundings," he flung his arms wide. "Don't you understand why I plead for him? Can't you see why I ques:tion your law and justice? Tell me---is theft never justifiable in your eyes?" His voice dropped, and he looked at the attentive, astonished, little judge, half-defiantly, half-beseechingly.
"Never!" came quickly from the judge's compressed lips. "Never! Theft is theft, and punishable only in one way---the verdict of today's jury. And as for his good intentions---bosh !"
He stood up and began walking rapidly and jerkily before the fireplace. John Everett leaned back, and an expression of pain contracted his forehead. His finelymoulded hands rested upon the chair arms, and they trembled a bit.
The judge stopped abruptly in front of him and smiled. "One would almost believe you advocating such a theory. Just another way of starting one of our friendly arguments, unjudged debates?" he asked, trying to throw a careless tone into the question.
The other gazed into the red coals of the fire 'and seemed not to hear. The glow shone upon his thick silvery hair, upon his high smooth brow, upon his finelychiseled mouth, and shone a living glowing light in his deep dark eyes.
The silence lengthened .and ,became opp:nessiwe. The book-lined walls seemed t0 !shut :them -in. 11hete was ,something sinister in the impenetrable shad0w.:Bcast ,b>y the ·dark, worn furniture. The 'J\ldge moved -'!lervcmsly .ahoutand suddenly switched on i:he light. Everett stared .and glanced with ·p:alf-,dosed eyes ;at ;tm;e.sudden il1umi:nation and tthen a:t the judge, who smiled ia 1bit ;a:pol0getically ·and eKplained, "Twilight always gets 0n 'my nerve~, -old :man, and ,it seemed ,to hav.e ,entr.anced yon. I--I 1ust "broke the -spell,so to speak." .
"And yet you ·.send a mati from :light to -both mental .and material darkness---a man whom you called friend and who called you friend? And you call it right .in the ,eyes of God and man?" iHe sat tense, his hands clutching the arms rigidly.
The judge's face sobered and, resuming his seat, he took up the decision again. "To my mind, a thing .is ,either right or wrong. He stole, which was not right -either in the law of man or his Maker. We, living to,gether "in a society, punish wrong doing. Therefore, he was punished. I could not stand by anyone 1.nopposition to the law, no matter how-close .a friend---.not even if you were the guilcy one." The other moved slightly and shaded his eyes with his ·hand.
The judge continued. "Are we to ar-gue pro and con ,concerning the fundamental causes and reasons -leading ·up to a theft and to pass sentence accordingly? Are we to take the eighth commandment and attach a string of Joop-holes to it? Heavens, man! where would it land ·us? A ridiculous, impossible theory!"
"But I contend that it is not impossib1e," Everett .interrupted quickly. "That's what this universe lacks ( and it's a tragic lack!), the ability to -penetrate and to •discover the underlying bases of a human life. We don't ·take time to study others, and in that way, to help them. If you had known before what you knew after Lawson -was convicted, wouldn't you have loaned to him .?" ·
"Why, of couse---of course." .
"And yet---and yet you feel satisfied at today's outcome. You think that right has triumphed. He was . wrong---yes. But have we not proved as untrustworthy? Have we not shown ourselves cold, selfish and unsym: pathetic---and to a friend? Are we not as guilty in the eyes of God and man as Lawson? Ah! we will have to. answer to a charge as serious as his." His wonderful voice rang out, and his brilliant eyes were deep and passionate. Gradually he relaxed his tense position and . leaned back in his chair. Judge Carlyle stared thoughtfully at the speaker. Finally he spoke.
"You really astound me, John! Would you blame us for the weaknesses of another? I must admit, I don't get your point of view."
"No, I guess not. You wouldn't understand---you. couldn't understand."
"I do understand," the judge contradicted quickly, "but I do not agree. Most certainly not! I cannot see that if you were to be guilty of theft that I -----."
Everett interrupted and with an imperative wave of his hand dismissed such a supposition. The judge's staccato notes ended abruptly. He looked questioningly at the wide brooding eyes. What was it he saw in their glowing depths? A slight shiver ran through his slender body and he arose with a quick movement. He placed his hand gently on the other's broad shoulder and, with a hesitancy in his voice, which was most unusual in him, he cautioned, "Don't take the failure of others too much to heart, my friend. He's beyond hope now, and he has his just deserts---yes, yes---his just deserts." He glanced at his watch. "I must be going. I've stayed too late. I've an engagement at the club in a quarter of an hour." ' Still no answer either in word or look. He walked to the door and, turning, asked, "Shall I drop in on my way home, old man?"
Everett pulled himself slowly out of his revery and . looked long and steadily at Judge Carlyle. "Beyond all
hope, now---beyond all hope. Why, er, what was that you asked? Oh! N o---no---I think I shall retire early, quite early. My head is---is---is tired." A faint smile passed across his sad face, but never changed that brooding hunted look in his brilliant eyes. The judge bowed slightly, flashed his crooked smile at the man by the fire and was gone.
As the outer door closed with a dull muffled sound, John Everett dropped his head into his hands and sighed wearily. Murmuring to himself brokenly, he repeated parts of the judge's conversation, "Trusted and he broke his trust.' Ah! with every syllable he unknowingly condemned me. 'Theft punishable only in one way.'" He shuddered and recoiled as if from a blow. "A thing is either right or wrong." No alternative---no alternative! "I could not stand by anyone in opposition to the law, no matter how close a friend ---not even if you were the guilty one." A dry sob shook his bowed shoulders. He sat motionless, his breath coming in short jerky gasps. In the distance a clock boomed 10 o'clock. He roused himself and drew a small worn bank-book out of his pocket. Wearily he scanned again and again the tale it told. "And I can't pay it back, and they believed in me and trusted me. Now they must know---the judge must know." Tragically he whispered to himself, "I have broken my trust---broken my trust, and 'it is punishable in only one way.' Oh! the horror of it all---the damnable weakness !"
Rising slowly, he walked to the door and locked it. Almost eagerly he approached an exquisite oddly-carved chest and, taking a queer twisted key from his pocket, he unlocked it and quickly raised the top. He gazed almost reverently at the richly-bound set of Victor Hugo. Gently, caressingly he ran his hand across their dull-blue backs as if he smoothed the soft cheek of a child. Selecting one of the volumes, he carefully withdrew it from the case and resumed his seat in front of the fire.
¼BE -MESSENGER
Handling the ·hook as if .it haid b6en ,a bit ,of belcw-ed .and fr.agile china, lhe gazed .at •it. .He rprressed-his -cheek ~ainst it ana smiled at :its soft texture. He inhlaled,dMp -brea.thsand 1glor:fodLinlits rich:Ieathety •0dor. He fingered :the thin delicate paper tenderly. All the while he murmured softly dio t'b.e litfle volume, "You heaird me -tondemned? Never, never, justifiable, he sa.id. But, oh! how I wanted you! All my life I had -looked for you and .longed for you. And, tfuen, that morning, as I browsed ·in the shop I saw you, and you called to me. I resisted you---yes, remember---for -a while I turned ,a deaf ea:r to you. But what comfort, what treasures lay stored up in ,your ,beautiful bindings · i And ·then you ·were mine! Oh! why was 1 chosen to hold that money in trust? 'Why was such a·burning temptation added to my longing? Whom have I to blame but myself---my own weakness? I was held by a fine thread in the hand of Fate, and, with one. strain, I escaped and---and fell."
His eyes wandered around the room, finally returning to the little book in his hands. "You have always made up to me £or what I sacrificed in heeding you. You have not though me queer and reserved. You llave not looked askance at my---my poverty. Don't fail me tonight---don't fail me tonight!"
Running through the pages familiarly with the touch of a lover, he ·stopped at a certain passage. But his eyes were st.ill restless and glowing, and he searched the pages again and again. Suddenly, with a sob, he cried out, "Jean Valjean, mon ami, mon cher I Comfort me; speak to me; make me forget mundane things. You understand; you know my agony. Don't forsake me now--don't forsake me!"
His brilliant dark eyes glowed deeper and brighter. They ·seemed on fire from the torment of his soul. He read rapidly, feverishly turning page after page, but the words of Judge Carlyle, "Never, never justifiable---beyond all hope now," ran as a dull, discordant, minor
chord throQg,h the me}ody and harmon;y of Hu .go's L~s Miserables .
It was bitterly cold. The. wind moaned and h9wled around the corners , and . up , and · down the deserted · street. Judge Carlyle stood· silently , gazing up at John Everett's window, a perplexed little frown between his brows. Suddenly, he mounted . the narrow steps and rang the bell.
"Very foolish of me, no . doubt, but I cannot get away from the look in John's eyes. Perha,ps l was a bit didactic and severe , and he is an imaginative sympathetic fellow."
He walked tdown the long dimly-lighted . hall t0 Ever ett' s door and knocked. The sec0nd and third time he knocked. He then tried the. dG>or. It was locked.
"Sad about John Everett's sudden death, Judge, wasn't it? I see from the papers that it was -due to heart trouble. I never knew he had any such trouble , but he was very reserved, don 1t you think? It's a great pity! Such a splendid man he was . t ______ ,,.
"He was always so sad and tragic :.lboking," interrupted a jolly-looking · man from across the table . "I think he felt handicapped 1 by his poverty, and he was deucedly proud ~"
"The club has certainly lost a good member," continued the first speaker, "at;id. this city .has lost one of its Ligg cst m en in. li t erar ,y lin es .'. '
Judge Carlyle looked. up and nodded slowly~ "Yes, an untimely end to a brilli.<l,nt-,int,ellectual•care.er:.. I think he had been .tl'.ouble.<;iwJth,his.heaFt here lately, . and, L believ:e the doctors attributed .his death . to that."
His hand touchtd a_. small, wor,n banls:rhook and 1a little empty vial in his pocket.· He - w:inqed and ·walked · slowly out of the room ,
@bt to ".-,gbt J,abt littn"
XXX,
'24
"Of all sad words of tongue or pen, The saddest are these, 'It might have been.'" -Whittier.
It might have been, it might have been, how dark, How gloomily these words pass o'er my mind; Recalling memories both sad and sweet, They bear me back to times that used to be. What words are these, what silly idle words! Can such thoughts e'er accomplish anything'! Can I retrace the course o'er which I've come And live what might have been'!
Ah, I cannot.
Fair were the castles I had built in air. Airy structures, graced with many a dome And pinnacle of hope, but founded on Imagination's shifting bar of sand--H ad their foundations been of solid stone, Who knows how fair and high they might have grown! And now, while others only see the truth, They never think what might have been. Ah, but I do.
My castles were all tapestried within, And decked with ornaments so rich, so rare! My hopes were locked behind their wondrous gates, I held the keys and none could enter there. These treasures I had hoped to bring, some day, Out to the light where others might admire, And blessing others might myself be blest. All these things might have been.
Ah, but they're not.
But other scenes arise in my •mind's eye, And these are dark, foreboding, full of woe; The dangers which have oft' assailed my path; The wayward steps that I had well-nigh made; The evil things which once I thought were good, And which I strove for then, but all in vain;
Who knows what pain these might have caused if gained? What evils might have been!
I'm glad they're not.
And so, tho often times we find it sad, To think upon the things that might have been; To see our airy castles fallen down--Their grandeur and their pride forever gone--lf we can have the faith to look above, We see One there who knows of all our woes; And tho at times the best things seem to us Those things which might have been! He knows they're not.
_,orror ·
GEORGE R. FREEDLEY, '24
'Twas on an old Virginia plantation in the early nineties that a memorable happening occurred. The Edmund Randolphs were entertaining, at a Christmas house party, their numerous relatives as well as - a group of young people who were invited for their two daughters.
The Randolph home, like many another old Virginia mansion, was rambling and contained many little rooms. When the letter of. Miss Ashworth came saying that she was to arrive the next day, the househ0ld was thrown into great confusion, for every bedr,oom was occupied except the "Ghost Room 1' in a little-used wing of the house. Miss Ashworth , had not been to the Randolph home since she had le£t in high dudgeon ov.er some fancied slight at her godchild's christening. She was - very wealthy and.it was hoped that she would leave her money, when she died, to Claire, the victim of this incident. What was to be done? All the family was crowded together and there was only Claire's tiny bedroom that could be offered if she were willing to sleep in the "Ghost Room," as the Red Room was called. Smilingly, she gave up her room because she was the youngest, she said.
All the guests had arrived and every one was very gay at dinner that night. Claire seemed strangely ex, hilarated, though she was usually a very quiet and restrained girl. She was seated next to her fiance, William Bagby, and they were glorying in their love, for they were to be married in , June. Alas, how changed everything was after one short night.
When the ladies and some of the younger men had gone into the drawing room, Miss Ashworth began a weird tale of some adventure. With a strange premonition, Claire shuddered with absolute horror. All the countryside's ghosts were brought out and aired and
every one was looking around wearily when Mr. Randolph and a number of hard-headed, practical, old men came in. All at once all talk of ghosts and the like was hushed, as every one knew that they would be laughed to shame had they so much as mentioned such things to these wiseacres. If every one was happy, Claire was happier; she laughed far more freely and danced with far more abandon than ever she had done before.
Suddenly her father mentioned that three of his fine thoroughbred heifers had been found dead, though little lacerated their blood had been sucked from the wounds found on their necks.
"Probably some dog or perhaps a stray wildcat," suggested Miss Ashworth.
"No, strangest of all, the naked footprints of a man were found beside the bodies," said Mr. Randolph.
"A man's footprints!" they all exclaimed in a horrified chorus. ·
"Yes ; though we could not trace them, for they soon led into the woods where they were lost, we found this bit of chain." He held it up so that everyone could see it. After that, no one felt like talking or dancing and all the guests from the neighborhod began to leave. After they had gone, the house guests up went stairs to their rooms en masse.
Claire had been picked to see Miss Ashworth to her room. She did not feel especially kindly to her godmother afthat time, for at one o'clock in the morning one usually thinks that their own particular bed is the best one in the world. Miss Ashworth, seeming to divine what her godchild was thinking, said as they reached the door:
"Claire, dear, won't you come into my room and spend the night, there is a lounge that you can sleep on? You don't have to give up your room."
Claire wavered; the room looked so very cozy and she was to be so far off from every one. False pride, how-
ever, decided her, she would spend the night in the "Ghost Room."
"No, thank you; I will be all right in my room."
The door closed and as she passed her sister Mabel's room, the door opened and Mabel came out.
"Claire baby, won't you spend the night in my room; there is a bed we can fix for you or me. I hate to think of you 'way off by yourself; you had better sleep with me.')
Again her false pride rebelled---she had been called "baby" ---she would spend that night in the Red Room.
"No, thanks, Mabe. Don't worry about me; I can take care of myself," she laughed.
With a jest on her lips she went to her fate. If she could only have looked into the future she would have flown to her sister's room. Mais helas, she, like other mortals, could not foresee the happenings of the future.
She traversed the billiard rooms, which echoed her every step, and with a candle in her hand she entered the short corridor which led to the Red Room. The only other room on this floor was a storage room; a flight of stairs led up 'from the old creamery and ended almost at her door.
As Claire entered, she cast a quick glance behind her and saw nothing, so decided it was her nerves. The room was hung with old red velvet and the furniture was very antique. A new mattress and springs, however, had been placed on the bed, so that it was quite comfortable. She rang for Liza, her maid, and gave the fire a poke to start it blazing again.
The girl had never encouraged much talking in her maid, as Liza could talk enough without any encouragement. This night, however, she prolonged Liza's duties to the utmost, ·but as the clock struck two and her maid with a slight yawn asked her if there was anything else, pride forbade her to keep her with her any longer. With an admonition to wake her at half-past seven the next morning, she dismissed the girl.
As Liza left her, Claire felt a wave of inexpressible loneliness sweep over her and she longed to call the girl back with some pretext. She refrained, however, and got up to lock the door, but as it would not catch and as the bolt was broken also, she gave up and went back to bed. She put out the candle with a mental reflection that the fire would be light enough, and was soon fast asleep. She must have slept at least two hours, when she was awakened by a creaking of the stairs and a faint clank of a chain. The sound of a heavy body, moving, grew more distinct---it was outside her door---the door opened ---it was in the room with her. Claire tried to cry out, but the words stuck in her throat; she could make no sound; she could not move. Becoming used to the darkness, she saw a dark shape moving across the room towards her. Was it a spectre? Was it a practical joke that some people are wont to inflict on their nervous friends? Was it her St. Bernard .dog who had broken his chain and come up to her? It was; it must be. She started to say, "Bruno, Bruno!" Some inward warning ·kept her from doing so.
The body dropped on the flo8r beside her bed with a sigh; regular breathing proved to her that it was asleep. A sudden resolution seized her and Claire grasped her dressing gown and slipped into it as she hurried across the floor. A moan was heard from the mass; had she awakened it? She stopped. Its arm, thrown out, grasped her sleeve. Its regular breathing was heard again, but she was caught. If she moved it would awaken the creature. She sank into a chair nearby, to wait for the dawn. It was dreaming. It snarled and gnashed its teeth, while . she trembled in terror. Then it sighed and uttered low moans and threshed about, but never was the grip on the sleeve loosened. Impossible though it may seem, she even dozed.
Dawn came at last . and Claire, now fully awake, saw for the first time what it was that held her. There lying
on the floor was what was once a man; its body, covered with gore, was only half clad. The dirty, ragged garments were loose and she saw a steel belt around its waist with a chain attached. She was in the hands of that which is more terrible than even the merciless wild beast, a madman. His face was gaunt and marked with sufferings, his blood-blackened teeth were shown in a sudden snarl. His wasted form showed the effect of inhuman asylum authorities which had attempted to coerce his crazed mind.
Fear that Liza's knocking would awaken the creature came over her, she would be murdered like the innocent animals.
A step outside the door was heard and Liza rapped, hearing nothing she rapped again and yet again. The repeated knocking awakened the creature and sleepy stupidity filled his eyes. Then they rested on the person of the girl sitting in the chair and a cruel cunning crept into them. Realizing calmness was the only thing that could save her, Claire sat with a forced stoicism that she did not feel and stared unabashedly into the eyes of the madman. His eyes dropped, involuntarily cowed, and he loosed her arm. This was the instant she had waited for.
Claire pulled open the door and, dragging the wondering Liza, she rushed down the hall. into the billiard rooms, screaming for help.
Freed from her restraining eyes, the madman realized his prey was escaping and hurled his lumbering bulk in pursuit. Reaching her sister's door and meeting her father armed with a revolver, and a group of friends, she sank down crying, "Save me!" and fainted.
The creature was killed after several shots from Mr. Randolph's gun, then attention was turned to Claire who still lay in a faint. She was taken into her sister's room, where she was revived for a moment and then fainted again.
Claire was very ill for a long time, and as no one but the trained nurses and her mother were permitted to enter the room, the terrible change in her appearance was a great shock. Her hair was a dead white, her face was pale and drawn, her figure gaunt; in short, her beauty was gone. When William, her fiance, saw her, he turned from her in horror, and to this day she lives alone on the old plantation, the wreck of that terrible night.
jlature', 1.ullabp
GLENNA JAMES, '23
How drowsily, dreamily, down from the sky The sound of the drizzling rain, The soft, soothing slush, The far, gentle rush Of the tripping, trembling train.
The milky sky overhead, Like a cradle soft and deep, Spills her showers for the thirsty flowers, And to soothe me in my sleep.
~bt Jlational · l\tfrtsbmtitt
RITA MA v BAKER, '24
To dub ice cream "The National Refreshment" a while ago would have called forth icy remarks and frozen glances of scorn, but today perhaps it would not seem so entirely devoid of reason to do so. At any rate, it has appeared so to me, judging from my own experience. When I was a very small girl I lived in the picturesque town of Dundee, Scotland. The climate there was too damp and chilly for the enjoyment of ice cream, hence it was a very rare delicacy, and could usually be found only at a "hokey-pokey stand." There were no convenient soda slingers to ruin , one's appetite between meals, so the hokey-pokey stands were my main stand-by; there in return for a "ha' penny" I received a "slider," which consisted of two flat wafers lined with the delicious confection, which oozed out between the edges at each bite. But good ice cream was not to remain a stranger to me, for we sailed for America, and I was soon initiated into the delightful mysteries of ice-cream sodas and chocolate nut sundaes. My fondness for ice cream soon grew to be a:r;iobsession, and in proportion my liking for tea, Great Britain's national refreshment, diminished.
My first summer in America was spent in the South, and I discovered what hot weather was. My British family stuck loyally to their customary hot tea, passing up iced tea, for whoever heard of putting ice in tea? Nevertheless, we soon acquired an ice-cream freezer, after which event there was a noticeable difference in the muscles of my right arm. .About this time I attended my first American party. When we had parties in the old country we served sandwiches and very plain cake for refreshment, which took the place of a meal. Did they serve such things at this party? Oh, no. They served ice cream. It was an agreeable surprise to me,
for I was always on the job when any ice cream came my way. I thought perhaps it was not the custom to serve _ice cream, but just a happy thought on the part of my hostess, but I soon discovered that it was .everywhere the same. Ice cream was the national refreshment. So when my birthday came around, with its accompanying party, _I, too, served the national refreshment, and enjoyed it as much as my guests.
I shall never forget my pleasurable emotions when my little boy friends treated me to a nickel's worth of ecstacy at the soda fountain. To sit perched up on a high stool before a gleaming marble counter, with a long straw buried deep under the foaming top of an ice cream soda, and inhale with rapturous gurgles the sweet liquid, was to me a seventh heaven. Then when a rasping sound proclaimed that the last drops had journeyed up the straw and over my palate, I would sit enviously watching my companion , who somehow always seemed to have the faculty of making his last longer. Whenever we had a party at our house it was always my pleasure -to slip behind the scenes when the guests were all served, and proceed to consume all the cream that remained in the freezer. I was always severely rebuked after the orgy, but that never deterred me from offending in the same m a nner at the next opportunity.
One day my fondness for the stuff led me astray. The high school which I attended had in its basement a gymnasium and a lunch counter, which were widely enough separated to make each invisible to the other. I was a member of the basketball team, which practiced in the gymnasium after school hours, and it was during an intermission in the practicing that the dark deed was perpetrated. Our team went out ostensibly for a drink of water, but unfortunately we had to pass by the deserted lunch counter. About as hungry as was possible for school girls who had eaten nothing but a sandwich and a doughnut since breakfast, someone suggested that we
look around for something to eat. Our search proved fruitless, however, as everything was locked up; suddenly a brilliant idea struck me. The ice cream! Just behind the counter were three lids, which concealed white, pink and brown ice cream respectively. With a jump we landed on the counter, our feet stretched straight out behind us, our dirty hands busily engaged in scooping out the most cream in the shortest time. I cannot tell a lie. I never regretted that sinful act, the result of which was that we were never again permitted to wander in the vicinity of the lunch counter, but had to remain in the gymnasium thereafter.
Many people have tried to give me as much ice cream as I could eat, but none have succeeded. My capacity for it is limited only by my size. I have reached an age where I have sufficient self control to refuse a second serving when I attend a social function, but the avaricious gleam in my eyes always betrays me, and I am cheerfully supplied with more, much to my private satisfaction. I can see myself through the vista of years, growing old, and fat, and fatter, but I shall cheerfully bear it all, if only the cows don't go on a strike.
c9beto ~n '91b Cbateau
N. C. S., '23
How stately, sad and solemn-like It stands beside the crystal lake And casts its image duplicate Into the quiet waters.
How soft the whispering of the pines That tell the tales of olden times, Suffusing all the air with chimes Of days long ago.
No laughter comes upon the ears, No forms flit there, and still one hears And sees it all back through the years Reflected in the waters.
The very stillness seems to tell Of Princes, Kings and Nobles, well O'er come with wine; and how they fell In battles far away.
How youthful maidens thronged the halls, Or passed along the ivied walls, With knightly lovers in the thralls Of their bewitchin[l smiles.
And as they strolled about the green, Or stopped to gaze upon the sheen Of golden shafts and silver spleen Dividing up the waters.
No more they walk the shaded paths, No more we hear the jolly laughs Resounding, 'for 'the years have passed, And all is quiet now.
And still it stands, forever stands, A silent monument to bands Of high aristocrats of lands That know them · now no more.
How grey and solemn is the air Enshrouding the old chateau now! How lifeless, dull and full of care, Its face is in .the waters!
And still beside the crystal lake, It casts its image duplicate, And ever in its ceaseless wake, The pale moon cuts the waters.
~bt }SurpsJ,abt § Cbrtsttnfng
VI~GINIA RICHARDSON, '22
We were sitting on the porch watching the sunset. Everyone had stopped speaking. A chair creaked; leaves rustled, and a deep bass croak from some old bull-frog broke the silence. After a moment, in the direction of the woods, a far-away wail sounded.
Miss Mary said quietly, "Dolly."
Louder and sharper screams followed.
"Billy," added Miss Mary, beginning to rock slowly. We waited. Almost simultaneously two younger voices came to our ears; they were not so loud, but sharper.
"Lancelee and Lancelot," enumerated the speaker. Still we waited, but nothing more was .heard, then everyone looked at the old lady.
"Poor children! Lillian has whipped them again--all except the baby." She laughed.
Yes, Lillian had whipped them. What for they could not see, except that the minister had just left after paying his annual call. How did Billy know the preacher was there when he chased Dolly around the front of the house, throwing mud balls at her? How could they help it if the twins walked from around the other side of the hut right into the minister's presence in their usual summer-time lack of clothing? Oh, well, whippings came sooner or later every day,
"Bill--ee ! Bill--ee !"
Dolly had left her dishwashing immediately after her mother got out of sight on her way to pick blackberries, and now was flying to the favorite playground, the creek bank, just beyond the edge of the clearing.
"Billy!" she exclaimed joyously.
"Un-huh," grunted Billy, who was struggling ashore through the oozing, so£t black mud that was almost to
his knees. Dolly grabbed his hands, and helped pull him up the bank.
"Guess what! We're goin' a be christin' d !" she told him in an agitated stage whisper. Billy gazed. "You an' me an' Lanc'lee and Lanc'lot an' Bob!" Dolly was almost quivering in her excitement.
"Huh?" drawled Billy uncomprehendingly.
For just one second Dolly looked at her younger brother, disgusted; then suddenly losing her temper, she shrieked, "Christin' d ! Christin' d ! Christin' d ! We' re goin' a be, you dummy!" And furiously stamping her bare foot on the sharp stubbles of the marsh grass, which hurt and made her angrier, she whirled around, and started back to the house.
Throughout the morning Billy made many attempts to find his sister. He did not mean to make her mad. Girls are so crazy; if you can't listen to every word they say, they fly off like a flash.
Finally, in the afternoon, peace had been made. Dolly and Billy were out in the woods, building a house of sticks covered with pine needles, while the twins kept the baby screaming lustily by threatening him with squirming fiddlers.
"Ah---say, Dolly, what's christin'd?"
"Oh, it's somethin'. You know. Mr. Lee sticks his fingers in a basin of water, and dabs some on your head, prayin' real solemn over you."
"He ain't goin' a pray on me!"
"Maybe 'tain't prayin', but just kinda sounds like it," thoughtfully added Dolly.
"What's it for?" inquired Billy. _
"Oh, don' you know? Why ev'rybody does it!"
"Aw!" interrupted Billy skeptically.
"Ma says so," quickly asserted Dolly. "She says it oughter been done to each of us sep'rate when we was babies, but she thought it was better to wait till there was more of us, so it wouldn't be so much trouble."
"Huh! When's it goin' a be?"
"T'morrow afternoon. Mr. Lee, he's comin' here to do it. Ma's bought a new white granite basin, and we're goin' a line up by the wash bench, and all get done at once. An', Billy, we're goin' a dress up! Won't it be fun? Why Ma, she's even borrowed a dress for Bob from Miss Mary.
"Who wants to dress up. Why Ma'd wash our faces! An' she'll comb your hair! Aw, gee! Won't somebody holler! Um-huh!" finished Billy triumphantly.
"Shut up, Billy Bury. I reck'n I don't care if my hair has got to be combed, your's has, too, and it's 'most bad as mine."
"Well, anyway, mine's shortest." Billy was determined not to be outdone. To save any further discussion he sauntered off to the creek.
The eventful day dawned, and with it rose the Bury family. Mrs. Bury had never before tried to "dress up" · more than two of the children at one time. She knew what a task even that was; so she began early and systematically. She had arranged her program well. First, she planned to wash their heads, and get some of the tangles out. Now, when five youngsters have run absolutely free in the woods, picked berries, played in mud, or fought with it for several months, it takes the best part of a long morning to wash, and untangle the matted hair. This round could probably be completed by noon. Next, they were going to have a bite of lunch, following which would come the baths, and, last of all, the dressing.
Mrs. Bury was a rapid worker. She scrubbed the poor little heads as vigorously as she did Miss Mary's wool, and combed the tangled hair as she carded the same wool. Many were the wails that Miss Mary counted that morning. The trees echoed each scream that filled the clearing, until the woods seemed to be filled with crying children. Finally, an uneasy, red-eyed group
gathered around the table, and gulped the coarse food put before them. Their minds were on the bath that was to come. Billy's eyes were constantly drawn to his grimy hands every time he reached for a mouthful; consequently he was unusually silent. Dolly was also very thoughtful, glad that she had helped scrub the twin's heads, because some of the dirt ground into her sunburned fingers and wrists had come off in the process. Even the twins were preoccupied. Bob alone had forgotten his troubles, and, unmolested, screamed with delight, and, with all his .might, beat an aceompaniment upon his .tin cup.
By the time the meal was over, a large boiler on the stove was steaming. The dishes were left undone, and the baths were begun. Dolly was the eldest; therefore she was . scrubbed first, so that she could dress, and be ready to take care of the younger children after they had put on their dress-up clothes. Though not nearly so bad as the first, this second ordeal was bad enough. There were tears and occasional howls, to be sure, but, for the most part, comparative quiet was maintained and in due time the twins were arrayed in their Sun~ay best, and sent to "set down and be good."
Accordingly the four rheekly took their places on the bench at the front of the shack. For a while they were silent. Billy restlessly yawned and stretched. The twins were deeply interested in the ever-changing, oddly shaped patches of sunlight that bobbed from place to place on the ground. . Dolly watched a buzzard slowly drift across an opening above the trees, and counted slowly to herself as long as he was in sight. ·
"Dolly, you reck'n the pigs have knocked our house down?" Billy questioned, slowly and meditatively.
"Dunno," replied his sister without enthusiasm.
Lancelee and Lancelot looked expectantly at the two, for they were very tired of balancing themselves on the edge of the bench, dangling their chubby bare legs, their
toes just itching to touch the ground. They dared not go unless the others did.
Bob's splashes and shrieks came to them from within the house ; thus they knew there was still a long time to wait. Billy squirmed, the twins wiggled, and Dolly uttered a long sigh, whereupon Billy tentatively suggested, ~'Le's go 'n' see."
He slid from the uncomfortable bench and, quietly followed by the others, cautiously led the way to the little shelter he and Dolly had built. The pigs had not knocked it down, but there were a number of improvements to be made.
"Nice clean needles can't dirty you up." Dolly vouchsafed this information in reply to several suggestions from Billy concerning gaps in the walls and roof. That was enough for Billy. He and Dolly, in a few moments, were working industriously, gathering up arms full of needles and sticks to perfect the house. The twins were watching them. It did not take them long to think things out in their own fashion. Billy and Dolly were playing; why couldn't they catch the fiddlers? Certainly there was no reason on earth, they thought, and trotted over to the creek. Immediately, they were scrambling around in the mud and damp grass after the funny little fellows.
"There!" Mrs. Bury placed Bob upon his feet. "Come on. Let's find the others."
The very second she reached the door, and met such absolute stillness, she was suspicious. As she expected, the bench was deserted, likewise the clearing in front. She went around the house, paused, and listened. In the direction of the woods she heard a few syllables of a cautious conversation. From the creek came excited squeals of the heedless little twins as they chased their odd playfellows.
An expression, almost of horror, flashed upon the face of the woman. Where must she run first---to the woods or the creek? She chose the creek. There they were, Lancelee and Lancelot, speechless and openmouthed at the sight of their mother. White dresses . and knickers were splashed with water, and caked with mud. Their feet, legs and hands were black, their faces in streaks. Lillian just looked: that was all. Striding forward, she grabbed a hand of each and, half lifting them from the ground, led them with her toward the . edge of the woods. There she saw another sight, just what she had expected. Dolly and Billy were dusty ( for pine needles are not always clean) and tousled, and quite as disreputable as the others.
Mrs. Bury looked up at the sun. She judged it was about time for the minister to arrive. There was only one thing to be done. She ran and picked up Bob, put him into Dolly's arms; then, arms akimbo, hands on her hips, she faced the group.
"I'm just itchin' to lay hands on you. Yes, William , Eugene Bury, you better look uneasy! Come here, Dolly. Now, don't do it either. I ain' goin' a beat you, 'cause : I'm 'most sure Mr. Lee's comin' along, an' he'll hear you hollerin'."
Stretching out a bare arm, she pointed toward the depths of the woods, and shook her lean, stubby finger vigorously. Each movement she made was a challenge to disobedience. ·
"March!" she commanded in crisj> accents, "and no matter how long, or how loud I call you, don't one of you dare come near this house until sunset! If you do· ---well, you know where that razor strap hangs. Hear? . Git now! Hurry up out of my sight!"
By the time Mrs. Bury had tidied herself, the minister drove up. He was a handsome old gentleman and very .dignified, showing no less courtesy in this crude
home than in that of one of the well-to-do members of his congregation.
"Well, Mister Lee, I reck'n you'll be wan tin' to git on back home 'fore it gits late; so I'll bring the chil'r'n," Mrs. Bury remarked after the preliminary greetings were concluded.
As if expecting the five to come running to her at once, she called them. The children, however, did not come. When she was unable to find them, her distress was great, and very real.
"I declare!" she exclaimed to Mr. Lee, "I wonder where them kids have 'gone."
She called again---louder this time, and walked around the house. Going toward the creek and then to the woods, as if searching, she screamed for the children. It was very evident that they were not to be found.
That her apologies were earnest, Mr. Lee had not a doubt. He was certain that there had been some misfortune, for he knew Lillian well, and felt that her subterfuge was sincere. Consequently the wise, understanding old man decided to relieve her of her anxiety, and soon left, saying that the baptism could wait until a little later.
The sun had disappeared, and left only its tints of pink. Lavender clouds, brushed with gold, softly melted as the evening star rose and gleamed, with its tiny sparkling fire through the darkened trees. Out of the shadows, into the clearing, stumbled a little group, sleepy, weary and penitent.
GLIMPSES FROM A TRAIN WINDOW
A soft pink mist hovers over a distant hillside
Like a coverlet of down, Is it the snow of spring, .is it apple-blossoms?
A tree all fresh with tender green, The sky shines very blue through the thin branches A moment, it is gone.
In the edge of the sky some god has spilled a drop of flaming paint.
Like a blotter the sky absorbs the color, staining the little clouds that come too near, Silently it slides behind a distant purple mountain.
-Peggy Butterfield, '23.
THE MIND .
The inner chambers of men's minds, Workings therein are Oft too deep to fathom, . Searching, groping for something beyond A vastness that the fetters Of the brain cannot conc.eiv,e, Yet the soul begets a hope That is bred by the mind, The inner eye beholding life, N ature---God's handiwork---all.
While imagination paints
Rude pictures of immortality , And lanscapes l()f celestial Country in the portals of the brain.
-Harry Riddle, '23.
THE CRYSTAL VASE
Love was a beautiful crystal vase Filled with myriad lights and colors And I set it high above me on an altar And knelt before it and worshipped. The sweetness from it intoxicated me, The light blinded my eyes, I might have died there On my knees Worshipping.
But a great wind of trouble blew And the vase fell, And when it fell It broke Into many pieces, And the precious essence fied, The magic light went back Whence it came; I know not whence Else I might be a fool And seek to find it again. But I picked up the broken pieces And I wept over them greatly.
DIRT
I am the dirt $w?pt from the street; Turned by the plow; Just some dirt. You laugh---listen! You came from me. Go live your life, And when I wish I'll claim my own. I am the dirt: I conquer all.
A man of ten unconsciously falls into a well-defined category, a classification expressive of his outstanding characteristic. Along with the suggestion of naming a man after he has attained a certain age and after his qualities have become discernible and stable, we wonder if it would not be a fair problem for each person to display such insignia as would definitely point him out as a member of the class to which he belongs. We take the liberty of mentioning a few of those leaders with whom we suggest you attach yourself according to your disposition.
Insignia appropriate for each order will doubtless be chosen:
Laziness
E. M. Ramsey. Innocence
R. E. Booker Aesthetics
The article entitled "What Do College Student Know'~ by Paul V. West recently appearing in The Atlantic Monthly seems to have aroused considerable comment. Mr. West's opinion is that college students become so
engrossed with technical, impracticable and ancient subjects that they"lose sight of every-day information. The university graduate who could not ·hitch a horse to a wagon, or plow an acre of land, was said to be uneducated. Now, if he does not know where his thyroid gland is or whether cows may be called Leghorns or not, the critical college students are lacking in practical knowledge. The facts of Mr. West's article are at once amusing and pathetic. The results of the tests, so defamatory to many college students' knowledge, were undoubtedly correct. But, if those tests were given to non-college men would the results be of a nature showing more of such knowledge than in the case of college students? Possibly yes; but that is just the point. A man need not go to college to know that an artichoke is a vegetable, or the Le Penseur is Rodin's masterpiece. He may learn these facts outside the classroom. The college student's main object is to learn how to deal accurately and effectively with problems and knowledge which he shall acquire after leaving college, not to absorb every fact which can possibly come within a man's perception.
Remember: "Popularity is not a high test of literary ( or any other kind of) excellence, but it is a sure test of a people's taste."
Along with Cubist Art and Vers Libre comes the futurist music, possessing no melody, no harmony, only rhythm. Someone has said that the ancient Greeks considered rhythm the most important element of music and we may add that the Zulus entertain that opinion even now ! Are we progressing in Art?
Mr. Astrop is offering round-trip tickets to a: place in North Carolina, which is especially suitable for seeing the end of the world!
HIS GIRL
He says his girl is different from the ordinary kind. Her eyes are much the brighter of any, one can find; Her skin's a bit the fairer and 'her hair arranged just right,
And the way she looks upon him. Oh! what a rare delight!
Her nose turns up (perhaps it's down, I have forgotten quite), · ·
But no matter what its angle is, for him it is all right! Her hands are Mona Lisa's ·and her teeth the purest . pearl,
Her feet are Cinderella's, for---she' s different, is his girl!
He says his girl has ne'er deceived nor caused him great concern
With what she says and what she does, and he has yet to learn
The slightest fault in her makeup or error in the plan Which should make her the idol of any mortal man. The frankness of her manner and the absence of all guile Are plainly shown he has to own, in unaffected smile. She is the greatest paragon existing in this world, She's more than other women, for---she's different, is his girl!
~e says that other girls are nothing but a complex mass Of false deceiving, nothingness; the vain abode, alas! Of lies, deceit and vanity, of silly, infirm thought; While his girl is th~ opposite, the girl all men have sought. But he has gained the ne plus ultra, reached the treasured spot; ·
The fairest and the wisest and the sweetest girl's his lot . Let others voice their envy, let the banners all unfurl
To the happiest man tipon the earth ::.--she' s different, is hi-s girl!
He says whenever other men, their choices wish to make He pities the poor weaklings for the girl they have to take,
And wonders how they can endure those half-wit, shallow brains.
For surely any other girl a reputation gains For intellect and thinking power and founds them all on bluff,
But he is not deceived by them, for he has found enough Of wisdom, grace and loveliness expressed in one sweet curl
Of hers, to rival all the rest---she's different, is his girl!
He says although he firmly knows that she is everything, Which artists paint for, sculptors mold for, even poets smg,
Yet many people are such dolts they never understand The wonderful accomplishments which are so near at hand
In her. They say that she deserves a moderate esteem, Yet he continues to extol in spite of what things seem, And ever harps upon his choice, this precious rarest pearl, While we agree (yet differently )---she' s different, is his girl!
THE MYSTERIOUS RIDER
When a writer comes out boldly and writes things as they really exist, we can justly thank him. To us who live in the East, and even to the new generation of the Westerners, this book comes as a living monument to the lives of the early settlers of the West.
A great character is Hell-Bent Wade. Finding his daughter, whom he thought dead, he uses his superhuman scheming power to save her from the designs of a wretch, and finally dies that she might live happily.
Wilson, the lover of Wade's daughter, called Columbine, sums up the whole plot of the novel :
"We're dealing with a stubborp., iron-willed old man who idolizes his son; we're dealing with a crazy boy, absolutely self-centered, crafty and vicious, who'll stop at nothing. And lastly, we're dealing with a girl who's so noble and high-souled that she'll sacrifice her all--her life---to pay her debt."
After reading the book, one feels a keener respect for the romantic, though terrible life, of the old West. Here people stick to their seeming duty with unflinching resolve, no matter what the consequences may be. The novel deals mostly with sorrow, heart-throbs, murder and death, yet at last the expected works out. The true gold is separated from the dross. The miserable Bellounds meets a just death and the true lovers are happily married.
Zane Grey has given us his best novel. It will find a place in the heart of every true American.-C. W. N.
THE TOP OF THE WORLD
The Top of the World, by Ethel M. Dell, is an English production, but one of the most popular novels in
.America. Although it is simply a new treatment of "the ·eternal triangle," the easy-flowing and direct style in which it is written, together with the intense huma:µ interest in the story warrants the great popularity the book :has gained. .
By a peculiar chain of circumstances Sylvia Ingleton .:is brought to marry Burke Ranger when she finds that ·Guy Ranger, his cousin and the man she really loves, has sunk into the depths of sin on Burke's farm in South .Africa. After marriage she lives there with Burke, but finally determines to save Guy. We see that Sylvia is ·in a delicate situation, being unhappily married to Burke, but having to show Guy her love in order to save him. The author handles this situation superbly, and the way the married couple find happiness by that true love which •comes from understanding and so by "faith and love" reach "the top of the world" is told in a most interesting and artistic manner.
Sylvia is impulsive but courageous and able to fit in under any conditions, which makes her an admirable -character. Burke is capable of being hard and masterful, but is all love and generosity towards the heroine, while Guy is characterized by his weakness, but has a keen sense of honor. The humanity of the characters wins the reader's swift appreciation. Persons liking a romantic love story will enjoy reading The Top of the World. -0. K. B.
THE VALLEY OF SILENT MEN
In the Valley of Silent Men, James Oliver Curwood has written a story of life and adventure in the Northern _part of Canada. It is alive with the people of that land. Especially it is true in representing the efforts of the Royal Northwest Mounted Police in ·their activities to maintain law and order. One woman, Marette, a delicate little creature, too much unlike the savage Northwest, fills the story with romance. The whole is set in
a background of the great woods with their silent rivers; and inviting paths. Is a contract of two lands. The · real of the Athabasca basin with its fur dealers, half-breeds and rough men is pictured side by side with the: ideal of the Valley of Silent Men, with its avenger of crime and a woman, sincere and courageous.
To lovers of romance this novel has a strong appeal.. Realists find the situations too fanciful and untrue to life. The art of Curwood is well known in glossing over the : real manners and customs and making things to appear in the spirit of romance of the wild and free country, where · strong men vie with stout hearts over the love of a pure : woman.
It is a picture that one cannot miss. To follow Kent in his search for the Valley, where lived his Marette, is to follow up the dark sulphurous trail that leads back to , our golden dreams and happy hopes of yesterday. A sweet woman in the wilderness contrasted with a brave man, with all the roughness of the frontier life upon him---Marette and Kent. The woman makes the story possible; without her the romance would fade away .. Marette, brave, heroic and sensible in her love, demon-strates the beauty of true affection.
-W. G. K.
1'HF; AGE OF INNOCENCE
The Age of Innocence is a novel concerned chiefly· with the social world, especially that of New York at a . time when society had its particular conventional standards and orderly system. From a background of social setting, Edith Wharton has produced an emot.ional story · which however does not obscure the social picture. It was .an age and a time when convention permitted all sorts of hypocricies. The title, Age of Innocence, is onlya satirical allusion to an age of shams and outward appearances. The story does not move with great rapidity. The characters as delineated are too cold to represent real.
animated human beings, in fact her characters do not live, but are more or less a part of the past.
The central figures in the novel are May Welland, Ellen Olenska and Newland Archer, while the Mingotts, Beauforts, Jacksons, Lefferts, Chiverses, Van Der Luydens arid other distinguished families occupy no minor place, but make up the constituency of this social world. Mrs. Wharton contrasts these families; she shows their distinguishing traits, their conservatism, their pride and their relation to society. Newland Archer, a young lawyer of means and leisure, married May Welland a young beauty of his own social casts. Archer's love for Ellen Olenska proved to be a disturbing factor, though it never separated him from May Welland. The pjcture of Newland Archer in his library after the elapse of many years and his solitary musings there, permit the reader to link up past events in order. The merit of the book lies in the author's artistic and intellectual treatment, which characterizes most of her works. -C. G. C.
The Davidson College Magazine. The March issue of the magazine contains several short stories of clever makeup. This issue would be up to the top notch if it had given us more poetry. "Bought at 24.76" is one of the best college life stories seen in a long time. In "Lex Talionis" it seems improbable that young Robertson could have downed the "wolves" of Wall Street when a man of his father's calibre had failed. "Orange Run" is a capital story, in that it gives us a true conception of negro dialect. ·"Yellowstone National Park" is a minute description of a day's journey into that impressive land. "Envy or Pity" gives us an intimate light into the upbringing of missionaries' children.
For some time there has been much discussion of an Intercollegiate College Magazine and at last we have the realization of these plans before us in the form of an intercollegiate number of the Vassar Miscellany Monthly. The colleges contributing are Vassar, Smith, Mount Holyoke, Wellesley and Barnard. Our great expectations have not been in the least disappointed. Indeed the magazine is delightful. It is particularly rich in poetry, which is a rare treat. Smith is decidedly in the lead in this respect with five fascinating contributions, the best of which are "Satyr Lovers" and "Four Walls." "Yesterday" and "In a Chinese Garden" from Barnard are both excellent.
Wellesley perhaps leads in the prose articles, with . Vassar a very close second. "Certain Aspects of Child Narration" and "Quertas," from Wellesley, are both well handled. "The Smutty-Faced Fairy," from Vassar, is most charming and refreshing.
We wish to congratulate the Editors on their successful efforts and wish even greater things for them in the future. We will watch eagerly for developments of the Intercollegiate Magazine Movement.
The University Symposium. "Mrs. Muriel McSweeney" is a well-written theme on the wife of Terrence McSweeney, the late Lord Mayor of Cork. "Success" points out the narrow type of man, who spends his time apart from people and whose life alone bespeaks tragedy. "The Story of the Cliffs," a tale of two friends, seems a little far-fetched at the end. "Friendship" and "Faith" are two poems of real worth.
The Autocrat. The January number has an editorial "Cum Laude," which is timely and conveys a fine thought on the "bookworm." "The Marble Slab" depicts a vivid search for missing gold. The oration, "The Enemy of Civilization," is a work of unusual merit. Mr. Sine evidently used his imagination a great deal when he wrote "The Star Gazer." It carries us back to the days of fairy tales.
The Wake Forest Student. The February issue measures up well to the usual qualities of this publication. Four poems, three essays, and two short' stories make up the number. The verse, "The Old Year Vanishes," asks a truly great question. The last stanza is rather weak. "The Ideals of Americanism in Literature," an essay, is treated very well by Mr. Green.
~bitoriaf
In the present age most of us, when referring to colleges and universities, are prone to judge their merit and standing by their athletic prowess alon~. The succ~ss of Our College Interests the teams of a certa,.in university is used to prove its s.uperiority over another institution. And so it is with the University of Richi;nond and -neighboring colleges. To a large degree our minds have become centered on the physical instead of the mental side. This is not a good thing. Admitting that athletics develop the college man, advertise the school, and are the greatest factor in producing what is known as "school spirit," yet we should not let ourselves become forgetful of the real purpose for which · we are attending college, that of developing ourselves intellectually and receiving an education. In order to become well educated it is highly essentic!-1that we take part in various branches of sports and keep our bodies in physical trim, but that is not all! We must give a thought to our intellectual development and to preparing ourselves for our life's task.
For our own good, and at the same time upholding the name and honor of our college, we should take active interest in the literary societies, intercollegiate debates, the Dramatic Club, and the college publications. It is just as much as our duty to support the debating team as our football team. We are grappling and contesting with other schools just as much in an oratorical contest as in an at):iletic struggle and should put forth our energy a!].d interest to bring a decision ·favorable for our school. We have a great university with bright prospects before us, and should indeed feel proud in having it standing forth as a leader in all things, athletics, scholastic standards and forensic ability. Our entire efforts should not be concentrated upon any one of these branches. We must
:all, as individuals and as a college, guard carefully .against neglecting any one of these branches, and thereby becoming one-sided, but must strive to make ourselves .and our college well-rounded in every respect.
Farewells are always difficult, and the Westhampton -editorial staff feels that on this occasion the task is un·usually difficult, since we tread so closely on the concluding remarks of the recent Richmond College Farewell editors, who have stolen the words from our mouth. We echo their sentiments. We, too, .are grateful to the faculty advisors for the interest they they have shown in our efforts; we are grateful to the -capable and efficient business department; we are grateful to our contributors, both willing and reluctant; and we wish to thank both staffs of Richmond College for the -courteous and fair-minded spirit of co-operation in the publication of this co-ordinate magazine. As for our.selves, it is with mingled relief and regret that we give over the reins. At times it has been a tedious job and often a source of worry, but there is a certain interest and pleasure which can be found only in the work itself. Our magazine has been far from ideal we know full well, and yet we feel that experience has taught us something: "time gives us all a little learning," the poet says, and that we have constantly been climbing toward better things.
Moreover, as we turn over the keys of office to our successors, as we wish them well and assure them of what great things we expect of them, we feel that these are not mere hackneyed terms and stereotyped phrases, but words full of meaning> You, the new staff, have an advantage in these new plans, but recently put into effect, and which, unless all signs fail, should be of much benefit to THE MESSENGEB..It -se.emsthat under these con. ditions, if ·other circumstances are no more unfavorable to you than they were to us, TH.E M~SENGER of the months to come should be an interesting magazine in ·which students, faculty, a1umni and even outsiders will find both pleasure and profit.
Punch Making Made Easy
It is now possible to have a delicious fruit · punch in a few minutes time without work or worry. The une x pected guests need not worry you. The impromptu social affair may be assured success.
