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The University of Virginia
EDWIN A. ALDERMAN, President THE TRAINING GROUND OF ALL THE PEOPLE
Departments represented: The College, Graduate Studies, Education, Engineering, Law, Medicine, The Summer Quar ter. Also Degree Courses in Fine Arts, Architecture, Business and Commerce, Tuition in Academic Departments free to Virginians. All expenses reduced to a minimum. Loan funds available for men and women. Address
THE REGISTRAR, University, Va.
THE MESSENGE~
., as second-class matter. VOL. XLIX. NOVEMBER, 1921 No. 2
Lt ' Richmond College Department
R. T . MARSH , JR., '22- _______________________________Editor-in-Chief
A. B. CLARKE , '23____________________________________Assistant Editor
0. L. HITE , 'ZZ____________________________________Business Manager
G. S. MITCHELL ________________________Assistant Business Manager
C. W. NEWTO N ______________________________________Exchange Editor
ASSOCIATE EDITORS
Mu Sigma Rho Philologian
R. E GARST
B. U. DAVENPORT
W. G. KEITH
C. W . NEWTON C. G. CARTER
Westhampton College
THELMA HILL ______________________________________
Editor-in-Chief
PEGGY BUTERFIELD _______________________________ Assistant Editor
PEGGY B U TERFIELD _____________________________Exchange Editor
ELMIRA RUFFIN __________________________________Business Manager
MARY PEPLE ___________________________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 conj untion with the students of Westhampton College . Its aim is to foster literary composition in the college, and contributions are solicited from all students, whether society members or not A JOINT WRITER'S 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 Busineis Manager and Assistant Business Manager, respectively
Address-
THE MESSENGER, University of Richmond, Va.
nocence was formally proven. She was never able to erase the mark-black and undeserved----from her name. All because of a contemptible, lying Rumor.
We could give illustration after illustration, but all of you are acquainted with it. You meet it constantly. "ViThat are you doing to kill it or are you doing anything? You must! It is up to every one of you as students of the University of Richmond to do all in your power to better conditions, and this is a most obvious way in which you can help your college, your university.
Here the question arises, "But how? What can we do? We don't originate the stories that get around." Just this-kill each and every Rumor that comes to you and none are immune). Ask the direct question, "How do you know?" Nine times out of ten, y e u will be met by an evasive, "They say-" or "That's what I heard----." ( They say, on dit, or whatever one may call it, carries more blame in this world than the Kaiser!) Let it stop with you. Forget it, and advise the bearer to do tha same. You can never tell how much trouble you are saving one, how many heart-aches you are sparing another. If you stop and look at it in this light, isn't it worth it?
" Rumor next, and chance, and tumult, and confusion, all embroiled."
There is your problem, Spiders and Spideressoo. Dr. Boatwright once said, Nothing had ever been asked or expected of Richmond and Westhampton Colleg€s, to which they had not answered enthusiastically and wholeheartedly. Your college asks this of you. We know you are capable of up-rooting this evil. Don't forget the trust and confidence that has heert placed in you!
T.H.
Qt' J!.a'lJit
W. A. MCNEILL, '24
Geve me a horse, a dog, a gun, And I will be content
Whether my shelter be a house, Or heaven 1 s vast blue tent. V pan my horse, with gun in hand, My dog trotting beside, V p mountains, over plains, through woods, What pleasure 1 t is to ride!
I do not mean I shun mankind, Good friends have I, and true; But sometimes they don't understand, Like these my dumb friends doOr some there are who call them dumb, But I don't find it sol talk to them, they answer in A language that I know.
Tve no contempt for womankind, For I respect them allToward one, I feel more than respect, She can command my all; But even she at times must fail My subtle need to fill; I hear the wild call of the wild
To woodland, field and hill.
While galloping at break of day, Or trotting 1 neath the moonNo sound to break the si~ence there,
THE MESSENGER
Save my low whistled tuneI lean upon my horse's neck, And whisper in his ear; My secret he acknowledges, By whinnies low, and clear.
Or seated on a lonely hill, To catch the sun's last rays; My dog will speak by whine and look, And this is what he says: ((Tho friends forsake, and friends forget, I will be ever true; So you may go where e'er you will, And I will follow you."
Or in the campfire's ruddy glow My rifle barrel gleams, Bidding me a last good-night. In code of fiery beams, It promises protection and The game which I desire; Tho we have been together long, Of me it does not tire.
I live among my fell ow-men, Their joys and woes I share; But sometimes when life burdens, Seem more than I can bear· I slip away to some lone spot With these my other friends; And there in God's great out of doors, His own great peace he sends.
~be 1!\i~appointment
(Modeled on The Failure, by Chas. Caldwell Dobie)
JOSEPHINE TUCKER, '23
Teddy Hardeman pulled off his clothes wearily and slung them across a chair. He has just gotten in and he was tired. He crawled in bed, then realized that he had forgotten the light and got up angrily to turn it off. He kicked the chair out of his way and stopped short with his hand on the button. He had forgotten to write Dad over four months ago .
He glanced over at his room-mate peacefully snormg. Darn Jack-he had made him forget. Then he reached for his bath-robe and opened the glass doors. There was no one on the balcony. Dejected , he slung himself down on the couch. The light thru the rose silk curtains cast a mellow glow about him. He was a young boy, not much over twenty, strong, wellbuilt, but his face showed the lack of a guiding influence to bring out the dormant strength of character. He remembered perfectly now, it was during Christmas vacation. He had intended telling Dad he needed about a thousand for the new frat house, clothes, flowers, and so forth, but he had forgotten it until after he had gone to the office, and he was leaving before he could return. So he just made out the check-he usually did, but he had agreed long ago that he would always tell him when he did. And this time he had not. He had intended to write the next day but Jack had gotten him all stirred up over some fool quarrel with Emily, and of course he had forgotten.
Dad really wouldn't mind, he told himself. He'd catch the first train in the morning and explain. He
could miss one day from lectures all right. He'd get Jack's notes.
But his careless forgetfulness! He got up restlessly, went in, searched for a cigarette, lit it and returned. He was always forgetting something now -a-days. When he was a little boy his mother would always say to him, "Now Edward, don't forget to remind me to order some sugar when the grocery boy comes." And he never forgot. It was only in the last year or so that he was getting so absent minded. He was always forgetting to pay his board bill, or write up experiments or something . Yes, he had forgotten to get his scarf pin at the jeweler's that evening.
He got up with impatience and looked down at the street where the big elms were casting little menacing shadows on the pavement. A big car whizzed by. Far down the city theatre lights flickered and gleamed. An electric sign flashed out a glaring advertisement. Somewhere in the distance a victrola was playing. He frowned. He could not see why he had forgotten so entirely about it all. First because he did not often make a check for so large a sum, and second, he would not be there but for his step-father.
He thought of the days after his own Father had died when he and Mother had lived alone on the little farm. That was way down in Virginia. He was a tiny tot, and he had cried when Mother had told him that she was going to marry tall Mr. Corder, and had asked him for her sake to call him Dad, maybe it was all because Mr. Corder wasn't especially fond of little boys. But Dad had been good to him. It was with his money that he was going to college instead of working; with his money that he bought evening clothes and silk pajamas instead of overalls and cotton night shirts; with his money
that he was living at the club instead of at the boarding house.
He wondered what he would do if Dad should lose everything, what he would do without him. And he had gone back on his promise-forgotten! Oh well, he'd make it all right. ·
He got up, stretched sleepily, went in switched off the light, and got in bed.
II
Teddy Hardeman awoke early the next morning, arose, dressed noislessly, and slipped out without waking his snoring room-mate. He started out, then came back, picked up his overcoat, and crossing to his desk, dashed off a hurried note and stuck it thru the comb on the bureau.
"He'll wonder what's happened _ when I didn't even go home Easter; Oh, well-Dads' ill."
He smiled proudly. It would never do for Jack to guess his real fix. If Dad should ever lose anything he'd-. He dismissed the thought from his mind and walked briskly to the car.
He didn't know why he was leaving so early. The train wouldn't leave for at least an hour. He'd walk; the sharp morning air was refreshing and he was restless anyway. 'Twould do him good. He retraced his steps and turned down the avenue Yes, he'd make it all right with Dad.
The sun hadn't been up so very long either and Teddy looked up at it wonderingly. It had been a mighty long time since he had seen the sun rise. He yarned sleepily but inside, accompained by a rather gnawing hunger, he experienced a feeling of supreme satisfaction with himself.
"Mabe 'twill teach me not to forget," he mused. Then he smiled. That sounded so much like Mother!
He entered the depot with a quick step. The morning air did put life in one. He'd tell Jack about it-a prescription for the sleepy-headed!
Inside the crowd was surging in thru the gates. Sha r p cries rang out; bells, whistles, puffings came from the direction of the tracks. In front of the candy stand a pale faced woman was walkin g up and down patting a small baby on the back. Two more were clinging to her skirts. He hastened to the window.
"Cordorsburg" "One?"
He nodded and the old agent slipped it under the frame. Ted put it in his ve st pocket and looked at the clock. Just seven fifteen-he'd have time to get breakfast. He turned toward the resturant.
"Edward?"
He wheeled around. A tall well-groomed and styli shly dressed man was coming towards him. It was Dad. He frowned-he hadn't planned it all out yet .
"What fair lady bids you rise so early to meet her?" He asked teasingly.
He had never known Dad to act so queerly.
"But why are you here? You didn't let me know a word about your coming. I was on my way home," when the handclasp was over.
"Don't fool me like that. The Merchants and Planters failed yesterday-not a cent to the good. I came down immediately to see about it. Must go back to-night.
"Merchants and Planters!" Teddy gulped. "But you had all your money in it!"
"Not all," they were outside now. A porter was shouting taxies. "Several hundred thousand, but one seldom likes to throw his money to the winds."
Ted breathed again. "I'll say Dad-"
"Some other time. Here porter" handing him his bag. "W ill call you up before I leave." And the car was bearing him around the corner.
Ted walked slowly up the street. He was all mixed up. . Three months ago. The Bank failed. Several hundred thousand lost. The facts swam thru his head. "Not all-but one seldom likes to throw his money to the winds." He stopped short. He'd never miss a thousand he'd never know! He looked around quickly. His own daring frightened him. But he smiled a smile of satisfaction and quickened his step.
III
It was not until he was on his way back from lab that evening that Ted's feeling of supreme satisfaction in his daring began to give way to uneasy doubt. He had been in high spirits over it all morning and there was no reason for it to worry him now, and besides it was only a thousand and Dad was still rich-there must be plenty more somewhere else. Then too, there was a difference between what a thousand meant to him and to Dad. He had tried to tell him but Dad wouldn't let him-he told him to wait till another time. He wondered if there would be another time.
"Thou hast set aside all them that err from thy statutes, for deception is false hood." Deception. The word had called forth from long ago the verse. His Mother's words to her little boy came back to him as if it had been yesterday when they had sat before the open fire place and talked at nights, when he would tell her what he had done during the day. They had been such pals then, the little boy and the tender Mother. That was before Dad had come into their lives, the Dad he was deceiving, the Dad who was doing for him because
of his love for Mother, his own Mother. He tried to tell himself it was not deception. He had tried, but Dad wouldn't let him. But the word ran thru his head, and he could think of nothing else.
He went to his room. Jack hadn't come. He tried to study, but could not. He picked up his mail. A letter from Betty. At other times he would have lived in another world and walked in rosy clouds. Now it did not interest him. The magazines were dry. Why couldn't he think? Why was he letting such a foolish thing worry him? It was Dad's duty to give him money. But wasn't it his duty to be loyal to Dad and Mother?
The phone rang. He got up, · crossed 'the room and took up the receiver.
"Hello!" A familiar voice came over the wires. It was Dad . "Mother on her way to Florida? But the bank has failed !-Oh---And she's at the Monroe tonight ?-Sure, will be glad to."
Dad wanted him to dine with Mother at the Monroe. She had just come. Of course he would be glad-but he wondered what she would say about it all.
Would she be proud of her son? Would she still feel a little thrill at the mentioning of his name, if she knew? He thought of his past. He'd done only fair in his work in school and college-about as good as the rest of the boys. Yes, he did believe in having a good time, but then all boys did. He felt a little uneasiness in facing his mother just at this time. * * * * * * *
She was waiting for him as he entered, a small, middle-aged woman, well dressed, whose face shone with a motherly yet youthful expression. She drew him to her and kissed him tenderly.
"Let's go down right away-I'm so hungry!" She took his arm and walked proudly down to the farther end of the dining room, where a little table stood half screened by the palms. "We can talk so nicely here," she smiled.
"It seems an age since Christmas," when they had seated themselves and given the order-"and when you didn't come home Easter I just wanted to spank you," she teased playfully. "Are you quite sure some of the city attractions aren't making you forget me?" pointing an accusing finger at him. ·
Mother was a good sport. He didn't see how he could neglect her so. "As if they could! Tell me about your trip, mother."
"O, the doctor says a trip S outh would be good for me. I've been begging Robert to go, too-he's so confined there in the office, but he says he's too busy. I'm going to shop tomorrow and get the mid-night Cannon Ball."
"But the bank, Mother, the bank!" He hadn't meant to say it. The word had fallen from his lips. He reached for water.
"Of course he lost, but not everything, by a lot. I didn't want to go after I heard it , but he simply made me . By the way, he told me just before he left to tell you if you needed any money to draw in on the Cordersburg National."
Ted remained quiet for a few moments, fingering the pepper stand. "Mother, what makes Dad trust me as he does? Why does he give me so much money?"
Mrs. Cordor looked up questionly. "Because there is no reason for him not to trust you."
"But I'm no kin to him. I'm not his son."
"You are mine." She was looking straight at him.
"Even that doesn't make me perfect. I could deceive him as well as anyone else."
"But you wouldn't."
He sneezed several times. He had put pepper m his coffee. IV.
He did not stay long after they had dined. She said she would be shopping all tomorrow, and she needed the rest from her trip. Besides, he wanted to think.
A drizzling rain was falling. Unconsciously he turned down a dimly-lighted street. Little puddles of water stood in the walk. He strolled aimlessly. He liked them-the rain, the puddles, the black night. Was he living up to his mother's hopes for him? Was he a disappointment or did he have courage to confess? What had he ever done to cause her to believe in him so perfectly? Was he worthy of her faith in him? "But you wouldn't. But you wouldn't." They turned themselves over and over in his head. He seemed to be walking in time with them.
He turned a corner and lights streamed about him. He was standing in front of the depot. Was it only that morning he had stood there before?
A shrill whistle blew down by the tracks. "All aboard for Number Fourteen!" He dashed up the steps, thru the doors and caught the handlebar of the last Pullman.
* * * * * * *
As the train pulled in at Cordorsburg the next morning Edward Hardman tipped the porter, swung down from the platform and hurried from the station. He hoped no one would see him. He almost hoped Dad would not be in his office. He had endured the suspense long enough. If he were not in his office he would not tell
him! He must get back tonight anyway, in time to take mother to the train.
He stopped at the door of the big building and thought a moment . Was there any use? Would Dad find out? Would Mother-? He squared his shoulders, walked in, handed his card to the office boy and sat down in one of the leather chairs. It was a well furnished waiting-room-big, light, airy. It had about it a look of distinction and refinement. Some day he would have an office similarly furnished. He saw his patients come and go before him, a prosperous , noted physician. He would not be a disappointment!
The boy appeared. "This way, sir." Mr. Corder arose to meet him . Teddy experienced a sudden desire for the floor to open and swallow him up. He stepped forward.
"I've deceived you, Dad. I went back on my promise . I made a check for a thousand, four months ago, and never told you. I was on my way home to tell you when I met you . When I heard that the bank had failed I determined not to tell you." He breathed more easily, but he awaited anxiously for his father to speak.
There was a long pause.
"And what made you change your mind?"
"Mother. I will not disappoint her! I have never done anything before to make her proud of me-I've done this for her."
Mr. Cordor looked at his step -son for a moment, then reached toward a pigeon -hole in his desk and drew out a slip of yellow paper. It was a check on the Merchants and Planters Bank of Cordorsburg for one thousand dollars and dated January the fourth.
"I've known it for some time. I wanted to test you -to see how much of the man you had left in you." He put a hand on each shoulder and looked him straight in the eye . "You will not disappoint her," he said proudly.
V.
As Teddy Hardman sat looking out the train window at the sun, just beginning to set, he felt older-years -older. He seemed no longer a mere boy. But he was happy, inexpressibly happy.
He hurried to his room, washed up a bit, changed his collar and hurried down to the hotel.
He found her in her sitting-room. On the floor, by the side of her suit-case, she sat, surrounded on all sides by laces, packages, paper and string.
"Show me your things, Mother. You must have bought the city, judging by appearances."
"Not exactly," she smiled. Then she arose and came towards him. "Tell me what you,ve been doing today."
"I went home-to see Dad."
He walked toward the window and drew aside the draperies. Finding that she did not answer, he turned. She was standing by the table casually turning the leaves of a new book. Her lips were trembling, but her eyes were shining.
"I went home to see Dad," he repeated. "You said I wouldn't do things."
He looked out the window again. It was the time of day when heaven and earth seem to touch in handclasp of tender love. He was glad she understood. But he wondered what she would say. Then she came forward slowly and took his hand in hers. He put his arm about her.
The door opened and the maid entered. A yellow telegram lay on the tray.
Mrs. Cordor took it nervously, quickly tore the envelope and read it. Then she handed to her son.
"Wait 'til tomorrow and we'll go to Florida together. Am proud of Edward."
~fttr l\tabing a Volumt of ~lfrtb J)lopts
MIRIAM NORMENT, '23.
0 ! I would sing of foreign lands, And gorgeous, multi-colored sands, And peacocks passing in the sun !
Of painted skies the sunsets leave, And silver ropes the raindrops weave To earth when showers are done.
Of lapping seas where fishes play In dark depths where great treasures lay, From sunken galleon ships.
Oh ! I would sing of love and hope, And all the glittering, fleeting scope Of youth and laughing lips.
Of rosy trees and garden paths Where careless childhood gaily laughs. I would sing, but my soul is dumb.
The undergraduate's life at college is for the most part carefree and happy. While his jollifications may be interrupted at times by those necessary evils known as classes, yet on the whole he has a pretty gay time. The association with his fellow students ( especially the opposite sex, if the college be co-ed), and the activities in the many organizations help make college life one huge period of pleasure. As a famous man of letters frequently says, "Someone or something always takes the joy out of life," so it is with the young seekers after knowledge ( a humorous title of the Rah Rah Boy). There is something which haunts his dreams, which irritates his neryes, causes him to swear inwardly-a phantom which rises up continually to reproach him, a reality which daily singles him out. Probably some cannot imagine what this monstrosity can be. Those that have an inkling dare not guess out loud, for fear they will be sought out by an avenging hand. I will keep it a mystery, then, while I describe at length this terrible institution which tyrannizes unflinchingly over the students' helpless lives. For want of better designation I shall refer to the unknown as It. All the professors love It and prescribe It almost daily to their trusting proteges ( 0, miserabile dictu !) The officials proudly display It to all visitors with shameless braggadocio, and the trustees are continually considering how they can enlarge and broaden I ts scope. The host of alumni, who have forgotten their fear and trembling, boost the college, putting It up as a big asset, thinking that thereby they are inducing prospective students to come and live under I ts domination. Oh, how they err!
It is a kingdom, a realm of darkness, a land of silence and whispering ( and oftentimes groans, sighs, and shudderings). Through this region flows no River Lethe, as did through the Elysian Fields ruled over by the Emperor of Darkness, Pluto. No, there is nothing to make one forget. Rather is one made to remember ( and that with a series of chills and shiverings), his seemingly interminable minutes spent therein. The good prophet Daniel, upon entering the much-talked-of lion's den, must have felt, in comparison with the student going into Its domains, like a newly engaged man or a five-year-old baby with a cigar, razor, and a dime's worth of peppermints. Slowly the neophyte, feeling like a martyr about to be offered up as a sacrifice, approaches the entrance, the maw, the horrible opening. His heart stops, then beats with doubly accelerated speed; his determination wavers (and so do his knees), but remembering Washington, Lee, Wilson, Pershing, and William Jennings Bryan, he grits his teeth, mutters something about "Excelsior," and " The dice is cast," inwardly prays, "Now I lay me down to sleep," and bursts in.
A pair of cold, steel-like eyes pierce him repeatedly through and through. He starts to open his mouth, but hands go up in horror all about him. Sufficiently warned, he starts to tiptoe further into the depths of this H ellgoland, but his heels, though made of rubber, crunch and scrape against the velvet-lined floor, sounding like a rude cart rattling over a stony street. From all sides come glances, suspicious, reproachful, condemning. He feels as manly and self-complacent as a cur that has Leen whipped and cursed, and who tries to sneak off unnoticed, with his tail between his legs. Ah! There is a seat. To sit down and regain composure would be fine. Creak! Creak! What a discordant sound comes forth as he sits
down! The alert, keen-eared guardian of the peace ::ushes from the throne to the scene of disturbance, finger upon lips, eyes blazing fire, and emitting sounds v·.hich resemble sudden blasts of wind through a pile of dry leaves. Again the offending one's heart indulges in peculiar antics of stopping, starting, speeding up, slowing down, turning over, and shaking from side to side. According to that renowned Civil War General, War would be heaven to this. Upon swearing that he is repentent and will never deign to hold his head up again, he manages to assuage the anger of the heartless monarch, who retires slowly, menacingly, eyes still dilated and teeth gnashing together.
The cowed, awestruck intruder heaves an immense sigh of relief when the hated form completely vanishes. Then he looks about him cautiously, fearing lest the bones in his neck crack and his tormentor be brought back by this cacophony. All about him sit meek, ambitionless, wild-eyed individuals scarcely daring to breathe or move. They all looked to be as he felt, and he easily imagines himself to be in a huge gallery of mirrors with his own likeness being reflected again and again. He is about to make a slight move to see if all those images would respond when soft footsteps are heard. Hist! There are approaching a group of fairies, nymphs, beautiful damsels, arrayed in gorgious colors and possessing lighthearted, carefree looks which seem very much out of place in this world of gloom and sorrow. "Some form of temptation," thinks the lowly one, "But better yield than remain here silent in my misery." Making a last call upon his feeble valor, courage, determination, and martyrdom, he takes the desperate leap, he places himself in the hands of Fate, he steels his nerves for the worst, and he speaks to one of the fair damsels.
What was that? Did some mighty earthquake cause the whole world to tremble? A lion roared in the distance, then the noise got louder and nearer. He perceived the terrible monster of destruction, accompanied by its fiery-headed helper, bearing down upon him with incredible speed . His heart grew faint, his legs refused to support his corpus ( which being translated merely means his body) and he crumpled into a heap on the floor. With his senses all in a whirl, aurora-like lights flashing before his eyes, a terrific buzzing in his ears, myriads of needles pricking his brain, he heard as in a voice of thunder, "So you would defame these sacred precints, ruin the death-like harmony of my beloved kingdom, actually dare to speak a word aloud within its bounds? Ah! Repent! Apologize!! A TO NE! ! !" The sentence ended in a terrible shriek and everything grew black before the victim's eyes. His reason went from him and he felt hi mself falling ... falling . ..
The experiences of but one of an endless number have been recounted. Day after day, week after week, yea-r after year the nefarious work goes on.
Oh! mighty, terrible, unjust Kingdom of It! How long will you continue in your destructive paths? How long will you inveigle unsuspecting innocents into your conscienceless realm? Your quiet-looking, seemingly restful nooks and corners have taken as their toll ambition, initiative, self-respect, self-control, and courage. Your awe-inspiring, relentless rulers terrorize everyone who enters your frightful boundaries. Oh! savage, heartless, tyranical Kingdom of It.
JOSEPHINE TALLEY, '22
The "main traveled roads" of life, hold no fascination for me. They are dusty with the sordid details of existence. Why struggle along the commonplace ways when there are so many delightful by-paths? The bypaths in literature entrance me. I would rather confess that I had never read Milton's Paradise Lost than that I had never heard of Robert of Lincoln. The grandeur of literary highways appalls me; I feel out of place! my individuality seems suppressed by the artificiality that haunts them. In literary by-paths, however, I feel a sincerity, a naturalness, a charm of sympathetic relationship. I'm sure that the writers who mapped out these little by-paths must have · had a close relationship with God and Man; a deep inexpressible feeling for all living things. When I read Tennyson's Flower in The Crannied Wall, something responds within me with a muffled melody that echoes through my brain, a deep harmony that my heart alone can analyze.
Thought the throbbing humanness of A M an 1 s a Man For a 1 That, you catch a glimse of the soul of manthat half-timid, elusive spirit that masks itself in boastfulness, conceit and conventionalities. If you go the "Main Traveled Road" you will never see beneath this mask. Only by constant detours into the by-path of human experience will you catch a glimse of the shy beautiful soul. When you are face to face with it, your own responds with an awed reverence. A glimpse of a soul is like a ray of light dancing elusively on the water, then suddenly disappearing.
The by-paths of the world all lead to something
worth while. The proverb, that "all roads lead to Rome" proves the futility of traveling the highways to find the joy of living. There is no joy of living in our little Romes. Only by pushing beyond our petty desire and vanities, by losing ourselves in the by-paths of God's great world, do we find true happiness-not on the road that leads to Rome. Wordsworth said that we see little in nature that is ours. How can we when we're all pushing madly on to our own petty little Romes, with no thought for the beauties that lie along the by-paths that branch in all directions-the little everyday adventures of life that we pass with unseeing eyes.
1Mtmorit~
R. E. GARST, '22
Memories throng around us, when twilight comes stealing To soften the harshness of a dis heart' ning day; Voices call faintly, pleading, urging us onward, To visions of peace, that one brightest ray.
If memories endure, then youth lasts eternal, Time is too feeble to erase what is dear-; The face of a loved one, a boyhood companion, Or the sound of a voice that you're longing to hear.
Watch o'er them tenderly, guard them with care, For our memories are the bulwark of age; Scenes long forgotten arise to enhearten us, As we slowly and sadly turn memory's page.
Memories! Memories! They are the treasure We hoard up in our hearts day after day; Gold cannot buy them, they are priceless and precious, They are ours till this life passes away.
mbeJlli~~ingJLink
J. B. KINCANON, '23
"Professor Clark will just have to flunk me on this course in Short-Story writing. I can't do a thing with this fiction stuff! Can't you give me some idea, Bill, on which to base a story?"
As he spoke thus to his room-mate, the Harvard student arose from his study table, where, for over an hour, he had been cudgelling his brain for some germ idea or plot that would be the starting point for the story which was due in English class the following week.
"An idea on which to base a story", Bill Slater repeated slowly as he relaxed into his easy chair. "I don't believe I can give you an idea that is original, Carr. When you think you have hit upon something unique or out of the ordinary you find that the same idea has been used by others many times before. Fiction has lost its freshness and its thrills because it presents nothing new, nothing original to the reader. Fiction is only a shadow that portrays vaguely and imperfectly the really strange and thrilling moments in life."
"I have often heard that truth is stranger than fiction," interupted Carr, "but what really strange or thrilling events have you experienced in your life time? I must admit they have never come my way."
"Perhaps you are right, but since you ask me I might tell you briefly of an experience I went through last summer, that to me was both unusual and full of thrills. I shudder now when I think about it."
"As you know, I spent last summer doing medical work for a coal corporation in the heart of the West Virginia mountains. I was stationed at Big Rock,
perhaps the smallest mining town in the state and farthest removed of all from communication with the outside world. About the only buildings at Big Ro ck were shanties used by the miners, the company store, and a large brick home occupied by the mine operator. I was fortunate enough to secure a large comfo r table room in the brick house during the summer where I was a ss ociated with Mr. Bass, the coal operator and his family .
I recall that one night in August, an hour or two after we had all retired, I heard some one knocking loudly at the front door. I jumped out of bed , slipped quickly into my clothes and was soon clown at the door, upon which our late visitor continued to knock vigorously as if he had come upon urgent business. I opened the door, and stood face to face with a typical mountaineer,-a man about middle aged, stalwart in body, a rough beard on his tanned face, prominent features, piercing gray eyes, bushy eye-brows, and grizzled hair. I saw, at a glance, that he was terribly agitated; and it was only after I had gotten him into the sitting room that he seemed to get sufficient control of himself to speak.
He said his name was Burton, that he lived with his wife and two grown sons about two miles across the mountain; and that the most extraordinary occurrence had taken place at his home. He told me that just as it was getting dark, his wife had gone out to lock the chicken -house which stood at the edge of the woods about one hundred feet back of their cabin. She had been away from the house only a few minutes when Mr. Burton and the boys were struck motionless with terror by a woman's dreadful, heart-rending cry coming from the direction of the chicken -house. Almost crazed with apprehension, Mr. Burton caught up his loaded shot -gun and rushed out towards the spot. A frightful sight met
his eyes. The door of the chicken-house was still open; and a little to one side his wife, still screaming, stood as if frozen to the ground, waiving her arms frantically above her head, her face white as death, and her eyes protruding.
Mr. Burton was completely unnerved and hardly knew how to approach his wife . He thought hi s wi f e demented by some fearful sight . she had witnes sed ; for on her face was an expression of utmost horror-a convulsion of terror which was dreadful to look upon. With difficulty he led Mrs . Burton back into the cabin where he and the two boys tried desperately to calm and sooth her and to learn from her the cause of this terrible experience. But she seemed unable to tell about this thing of evil that had by sheer horror almost blasted her mind. After trying for some time, in vain, to quiet his wife, Mr. Burton had left her at home with the two grown boys and had hurried across the mountains to Big Rock. He wanted me to administer some drug to Mrs. Burton that would quiet her nerves and produce sleep; and he also wanted some one to help him investigate the strange happening.
You can imagine my feelings, after listening to this remarkable narrative. I thought it best to wake Mr. Bass, so as to acquaint him with Mr. Burton's story, and my plan to return at once with Mr. Burton to his home . After hearing the facts, 1\/[r. Bass insisted upon going with us; and after he had told his older son of our plans, we set out with Mr. Burton.
We crossed the mountain in silence, each one deeply engrossed in his own thoughts; and as we walked briskly, we were soon at the Burton home. On enteri1\g, we found, Mrs. Burton still sufforing from some g.reat nervous shock, but a few minutes after I had given her a hypodermic, she fell asleep.
While the boys remained in the cabin with their mother, Mr. Burton , Mr. Bass and I made a careful investigation around the cabin, around the chicken-house, and along the edge of the woods, but we failed to find anything out of the ordinary. Realizing that we could do nothing more until morning, Mr. Bass and I started back toward Big Rock.
We had gone about three quarters of a mile and were passing through a particularly dense part of the woods, when the sharp sound of a breaking twig caused us to stop suddenly. We had not been talking nor making any noise in walking , so we drew back quickly into the bushes at the side of the path and waited. The night was clear, the stars were out, and by the light of the moon we could see objects clearly.
We had hardly concealed ourselves before our precaution was awarded. About seventy-five feet further up the path, a shadow like that of a large man, suddenly appeared. In fact it was immense in size, and grotesque in shape or outline. An instant later the shadow disappeared, and standing in its place we saw a form and face that paralyzed us with fear. I breathed heavily and was so frightened that my presence of mind left me. I felt for Mr. Bass' hand and caught it in mine. It was like a block of marble.
The creature on the path before us seemed to be some wild, savage beast of gigantic stature and prodigious strength. The shoulders were bent forward, and the body seemed hairy and black. It appeared to be about six feet .in length, the body was heavy and muscu- · lar, and the chest and shoulders broad and powerful. The movements were quick and agile, and as it paused for a minute looking up and down the path, we caught sight of a horrible, dark face with low forehead, flat
-nose, great ugly teeth, massive jaw, and deep-set gleaming eyes. With a sudden movement, it darted across the path and was gone; and standing almost breathless in our tracks we followed its course down the mountain side by the cracking twigs and the occasional rustle of bushes.
'The man-eating ape,' said Mr. Bass in a whisper. I have often heard that such a wild beast had been seen here in the mountains, but always laughed at the idea. I remember now that Dick Matley, a lumber man, reported having seen it one night two years ago. Strange tales have been told about the gigantic size and terrible appearence of the beast and more than one inexplicable theft of poultry and cured meat has been laid at its door.
"l suggest," I said in an uneasy tone, that we get out of here and tq.lk more about this when we reach Big Rock.
Mr. Bass readily agreed and we were soon back at home. Although it was nearly three o'clock, I had enough curiosity to take down a large encyclopaedia and turn to the word gorilla, the definition read: The largest o,f the ape family; males five and a half to six feet in heighth, heavy for their height, and having powerful chest and shoulders. The skin is black, and the hair blackish, turning gray in old individuals. The gorilla is charisterized by a sullen, savage disposition and gigan~ tic strength.
"How in the world did this gorilla get into these mountains?" I asked.
"Some have said," replied Mr. Bass, "that it escaped years ago from a circus a.nd took refuge in the recesses of the mountains."
"Or escaped from some zoo or private owner", I suggested.
But morning was destined to bring us fresh news of this grim dweller of the woods.
We learned that an old cattle raiser had discovered his smoke-house door open and a large quantity of his cured meat stolen. The door had been opened in the mo st peculiar manner. The iron chain which secured the door had apparently been twisted and pulled in two. Another odd circumstance was the large peculiar footprint found near the edge of the spring, located about twenty yards behind the smoke-house, where the thief had evidently stopped to drink.
Immediately after hearing the news, Mr. Bass and I set out for the Burton home. We told the Burtons of our experience the night before and of the morning news. They were all deeply interested; and Mrs. Burton, who was so much better, told us that it was the sight of this terrible creature that had caused her nervous prostration.
Two hours later, Mr. Burton, Mr. Bass, and I, all heavily armed, were far back in the mountains searching for the beast we had seen the night before. It was not until sunset that our efforts were rewarded. We had come unexpectedly upon a kind of runway which led through the dense bushes, to a clearing opposite an almost perpendicular cliff. At the base of the cliff was a large opening at least five feet high; and we could easily see from the smooth, worn path leading to it that it had been used for a long time as an entrance to a cave. We felt that we were nearing the end of our quest.
After briefly considering_ the best method of procedure, we decided to conceal ourselves in the thick bushes at the side of the cliff and wait for developments. We had been crouching in the bushes for nearly two hours, watching and listening intently for some sign of life,
when suddenly our ears caught the rustle of leaves in the direction of the run-way.
We looked up and down and saw standing at the edge of the clearing the object of our search. As it pau sed and looked wildly about, as if scenting dan g er , the huge form and feroci ous, evil face were clearly discernable. I was bringing my automatic into position, when a rifle cracked at my side and I saw the ugly creature fall heavily forward and lay still.
We hurried to the body and turned it over with our feet. A round hole clotted with blood, just above the ey es showed how true had been Mr. Burton's aim. One odd thing about the creature's face was a great scar, evidently from a cut received years ago, that extended across the left cheek. Instinctively we turned our eyes away from the hideous and repulsive upturned face, marked and distorted as it seemed, with the vicious and corrupt tendencies of a mind depraved.
Bill Slater .paused to see what impression his story had made upon his room -mate, who sitting on the edge of the bed had listened attentively to the whole narration.
"You are right, Bill," Carr exclaimed after a brief silence, "life is stranger than fiction. I see now that I will have a strange Short-Story for Professor Clark next week. But did you ever learn how the gorilla got into the mountains and how long it had lived there, or is that still a mystery?"
For an answer, Bill handed his room-mate a newspaper clipping that he had taken from his pocket, dated August 28, 1920 and headed .................. , West Virginia, a town fifty miles west of Big Rock. After the glaring headlines, it read: About ten years ago, July 12, 1910, to be exact our entire community was shocked by one of the most atrocious and horrible murders occuring in the
history of :th.e state. Sheriff Walton arrested the murderer, a big negro with a particularly brutal and repulsive face, made even more hideous by an ugly scar across the left cheek. However the prisoner escaped from the town jail the following night and a mob pursued the murderer far into the mountains where he had supposedly taken refuge; but after an extended search of four weeks, all hope of ever capturing the negro was abandoned. Yesterday the killing, by Mr. L. S. Burton, of this same negro who for over ten years had been a fugitive from the law, living the life and reverting to the characteristics of a beast, meant the partial satisfying of the demands of long delayed but inevitable justice.
j}igbt
w.0. CARVER, '23
I stand and gaze into the night
When all is dark and droll
And as I stand there gazing up
There falls upon my soul
The darkness of a shadow,-just As dark' as any cloud
And it seems that all my hope And joy are covered with a shroud
The very darkness of the night
Appears as fate to me
To be scoffing at and laughing at
The things that cannot be.
But oh,-the grandeur of the nightime
When the sky is clear and bright
Illumined by the myriads of lights
That make the night
So wonderful and glorious,
Withal inspiring too
For it fills my mind and heart with love, And makes me long to do
The will of Him who ma:de night
And all its wonders fair,
And as I stand and gaze above Then vanishes despair.
~be
;fflan
in tbe;ffloon M. E., '22
Poor old man in the moon! 'Tis sorry I feel for him -very , very sorry. Far up in the sky , all alone and isolated, he has gone his course for lo! these many ages with never a playmate in his youth nor a friend in his old age. Always alone-forever alone! Poor tragic, old man in the moon!
But 'tis only recently I have pitied him. I used to envy him so, and just wished so hard that I could be the man in the moon and look down on the world and its folks, and see all the lovely, lovely places and the funny, funny people. The sky is so richly, darkly blue. The stars are so sparkly and giggly and friendly-looking. And the moon looks like such a wonderful, silvery place to live forever and ever.
'Twas a clear, still night-that night when I first felt so sorry for the man in the moon. He showed the whole of his full, round, old face on us mortals, and turned the earth into a fairyland. Soft, silvery beams t ouched and caressed everything, and peeped into every craney, every fairy-hiding place---turned prosy, drab things into dreams and poetry. A delightfully cool, little breeze romped hither and thither, imp-like, through the leaves, rustling them :'and making them shimmer like duU, glossy silk-like things. I curled up against the rough tree trunk, and stared enviously, admiringly up at the man in the moon. I smiled delightedly up at him, and told him how we loved his moonbeams and him for sending them, and how I would like to bottle them up and save them for dull, murky moonless nights, and how most of all, I envied him. He blinked thoughtfully, and
smiled the weepiest smiles imaginable, and said, "thank you, little mortal-ah! thank you."
"Oh! you are perfectly welcome," I hastened to reply, because he did look so tearful.
"But don't envy me! there is nothing-nothing in my lot to envy," he sighed dejectedly. "Of all lonely fates, mine is the loneliest; of all sad points of view, mine is the saddest." And he sighed so deeply I was afraid he would turn right upside down.
"You have such a far vision, though," I ventured. ''You can see-why, you can see---."
"Yes," he interupted, "I can see just everything. I see the joys and sorrows of youth and age, the lovely and grotesque, the comedies and tragedies, the romances and farces of all nations, of all lands, but," he added sorrowfully, "I share in none I'm alone!"
"Why, we do need you," I hurried to console him, "we would miss you oh! very much if-."
"Yes, probably so," he put in a bit petulantly, "but on the nights I don't show myself, folks get along."
The old man in the moon was certainly rude-he interupted so often! I looked away a bit hurt, and felt he really should apologize. Suddenly a moonbeam played over my face, and I looked up at him again. He smiled, and because he was old and lonesome, I smiled back.
"Thank you, little mortal maid," he whispered gratefully, and I was glad I had smiled.
Suddenly he settled himself comfortably in a little grayish, puffy cloud and cleared his throat. Now when an old person settles back and clears his throat, it always means, "when I was young-" or "once upon a time---." I leaned my head back, and blinked up at him, and waited . The air was full of subtle, soft, mumurous sounds of
n:ight. A cricket fiddled contentedly a few steps away] and the lake, with the dropping, graceful trees dipping their finger tips in its cool water, lapped its banks lingeringly and caressingly.
"I have always been lonesome," he began," alwaysalways. As a child, a youth, a young man, and now as an old man, I have been alone. And always I have been envied! 'Tis true, I have seen much-too much for happiness---and have the wisdom of the ages. 'Tis true, I have changed little since my creation save for a few wrinkles here and there. My luminosity, my size, my power of moonbeam manufacturing is still the same. I can make moonbeams, but they leave me and never come back to me. I thought if I put a soul into one of the lovely silvery things, it would love me and stay with me, but I can't make a moonbeam soul. I have tried a bit of deep blue heaven, a nip off a fluffy cloud, an atom of the rainbow wealth, the words of sweethearts at night, the croon of a mother's lullaby borne to me on a friendly breeze. They are exquisite to look at, but they are not souls. Whenever the night is dark and murky for lack of me, I'm off on my pilgrimage, looking for a friend. I have asked each star, and the rude, little things only laugh at me and wink at one another as I pass. You mortals say they twinkle, but 'tis making fun of the poor old man in the moon they are. 'Tis on these nights that folks see, what they call shooting stars, but which are really tears, my tears, that will get away from me no matter how hard I try to be a store and keep them back." And, how he actually sinffled !
He did look so mournful, and I did feel so sorry for him, so I ventered a bit of consolation.
"But when you are up s<1>high, e:Venthough you miss the fun and joys and comradely love, you miss · the sor-
rows and trials of us mortals, too." He looked down superiorly at me, and I blushed at my youth and ignorance.
"Oh! little mortal, how little you know-how little you know! 'Tis not just the pleasant things that make a life. 'Tis the combination af all phases, and 'tis that I want. I want to know the human side, the better to enjoy the fairy side, the winds waft delicious tales of romance and beauty up to me, they bring, too, sad , sad stories. But I can't help! I can't come down and love and be loved, mingle and mix with the crowds, and do my share toward making people happy."
"Oh! but you do make people happy-ever so many, what would the world be without you, Mr. Man in the Moon?"
"Yes little mortal-dear, I know I am not entirely a luxury. The tides need me. But 'tis contact I want so badly. I want to feel the rough bark of trees. I want to bury my face in dewy roses and glorious honeysuckle and breathe my fill. I want to dabble my fingers in the cool ripply waters. I want to whisper to butterflies and know the thrill of holding a trembling little bulebird in my hand. And a thousand things besides !" He sighed, and gazed thoughtfully at me. "Oh! your world! your wonderful living world, is so full of the good and the beautiful! Don't let those gloomy, miserable people I watch going moodily, despondently about, sighing and wagging their heads, sadden you. Don't let them take away the glamour from life. There is evil of course, there is-but the good so far outweighs it. I know, for with a sweep of my eye, I can tell. Look all around you in that glorious world of yours. Don't envy me, high up here in the cold, outside the pale of human love and wants. See all the wonderful things there are to see and learn. Do
all the thrilling things there are to do. And whenever you feel dissatisfied and a bit blue, think of the lonely, old man in the moon; and it will make you glad you are you and not he.
He paused and straightened, for it was high time he should leave. The cool night air played softly through the trees. The cricket still fiddled monotonously on the same little tune. In the distance, there was the faint laughter of people-friends, comrades ! A big wave of gladness surged over me. I felt rich and contented. I looked up at the man in the moon, and sent a heart-felt thank you and a joyous smile up through space to him, which re ac h ed him just as he smiled at me and murmured, "just love me, little mortal maid," and slid reminiscently and quietly behind a soft, puffy cloud.
C. N. SNEAD, '23
Four years have passed since one morning in November I opened the little mail box consigned to me at the Richmond College post office, and casually read a card that proved to be the key to coming days of danger, hardships, recklessness and wild adventure, all of which went to make up the life of the American doughboy. It was official notification for me to report for transportation to one of Uncle Sam's military camps.
As I try to write of the days that followed, I somehow find myself in a quandary; not knowing how, when, or where to begin, for the momentous and eventful times in which we were living did not permit one, especially if he were a soldier, to think consecutive thoughts based on his arrival at camp. As a consequence, we-speaking from the standpoint of the soldiers-find in our minds a picture, though livid as fire in the main, with a somewhat jumbled and hazy background. One thing however, is perfectly clear in my mind. And that is this: I was a uniformed, United States soldier at one of the largest government training camps. Now, I mean to say that was the idea prevalent among us at that time, and particularly was it true in my individual case, that we were soldiers. However, two years convinced us of our folly. It is true I left college. In one sense of the word, I found myself in the world's largest university, for here were boys of every description and nationality-short ones, tall ones, fat ones, thin ones, from north, south, east and west-English, French, Russian, Japs,Chuncks, Polunks, Wops, Danes, Swedes-all reduced, or, elevated to one common plane, intermingling constantly and jab-
bering continually, cheerfully performing the most detestable forms of menial labor, always with a kick, but eternally with a smile-here truly was the melting pot of America's heterogenious population.
Seven months of this when there came a day which, I venture to say, is pre-eminent among days in the minds of twenty thousand men. Time may pass on, big things may lie ahead, but sooner or later, old men of the remainin g veterans will recite some trivial incident that took place on the day they sailed. For who of them does not know the very words that were spoken on that hike to City Point, the voyage down the James by moonlight, and the consequent boarding of the S. S. Mongolia as she lay heaving slowly back and forth at her moorings, a great monster in the darkness impatiently waiting for her cargo of human souls that she was to take into that dim unknown, and for many, to their "great adventure".
Then comes else-sea-sickness. Fortunately, this had been provided for to the extent that at intervals about the deck big garbage cans were stationed. They needed no sign to explain their presence, nor was persuasion necessary in order to impress their use£ ulness. They were in the line of least resistance, in b eing in most instances, nearer than the railing.
But there were other days when garbage cans were unnecessary. Beautiful days of golden sunshine and calm. · A dead calm, one would say, viewing them in a later light. And nights of silver, gleaming shafts of silver running to the moon as an arrow shot from a bow. Dark forms of a dozen ships, and the sparkling phosphorescence around each one. Never have I witnessed anything more beautiful than the vision before me as I stood on the bridge that night.
And next came France, that land of mystery, desola-
tion and death for some, for others, immortal glory. Three days at Brest, and then our first wild ride in "8 cheveaux", or "40 hommes". Calais; bathing in the channel, across which in dim outline we could see the famous chalk cliffs of Dover.
We were moving swiftly now. Here a little, there a little, until one day two months after landing, we found ourselves in battle array, brigaded with the British in Picardy and Flanders. At last the objective was being reached. Our initial baptism of fire relieved the strain that had unconciously come upon us. Over the top to meet our first German barage ! Veterans now, plain veterans who, like every other soldier, found sleep as sweet in a bed of cooties beneath a German whizbang, as it ever was back home in downy beds of feathers and pretty draperies.
The scene changes. We were Americans longing to cast our lot with other pals in the American sector. So when the order came for us to leave the British front, something of a shout swelled up in each man's heart. More wild rides, a panoramic view of northern France, a flash of Paris in revelry by night, two weeks of strenuous hiking, then St. Mihiel.
The job done, we must pass on to that unforgetable place, the Argonne forest. Three separate times into that hell on earth-a distinction by the way, borne by the 80th alone-and then the eleventh of November. The new day had begun.
I looked around me. New voices, new faces everywhere. Old pals by whose sides I had marched day in and day out, could not be seen any more. They had found their great adventure in America's historical battle, and that just a few days before the armistice was signed. Bumped off, that's all.
MESSENCER
We entered now, into that period of dreadful waiting -something which tested ones courage even more intensely than war. Reaction, an occasional leave of absence, minds dazed by the hell through which they had passed; wine flowing so freely. Ah! here was a chance to forget. And the !onliness of it all. The friends back home, well, they knew you had gone to France-and the girls! In all probability, married. But, here were girls, and beautiful too, so why be lonesome? Is that a verse of scripture I remember? "In Rome, do as Rome does", which reminds one of the fact that the devil can quote scripture for a purpose.
I would not stop without mentioning one thing more. The friendships formed by war. The constant contact with boys from every clime meant something. How well I remember Samuels, the boy who had taught English in China for four years. And there is John from Arkansas, Bill from Texas, an English friend, and there is old Jack Perston, a jolly New Zealander, hale, hearty, and well met in a dugout in Flanders field. I saw Jack by way of co-incidence, again at Newport News. He landed there the same day our ship came in.
And so it goes. Friends, national and international, here, yonder and everywhere. Then comes the thought, there is good in everything, for who cannot say the world is better acquainted because of the war, and that amity between nations has had its real beginning because of their better acquaintance?
~be jf allacpof l3bpsic~
JULIET WOODSON, '22
When the time came for me to select a science in my struggle for a degree, I was given my choice between physics and chemistry. I was between the devil and the deep blue sea, faced with the horrible problem of choosing the lesser of two evils. I took physics! ( I'm still doubtful whether it is the deep blue sea or the other.) I took it because I had learned from good authority that Doctor Ryland fluncked nine girls out of ten. The subject itself is most bewildering. That is, I am most bewildered-the rest of the class seems to cover the ground with amazing grace and speed. Indeed, between trying to understand what I discover in class and attempting to introduce the little I do know into polite conversation, I am wasting away the best part of my youth.
Yesterday, for instance, we had a lecture on Molecules. ( Molecules, as I understand them, are tiny bits of anything that bob up and down, regardless of quality.) We were bidden to think of rubber balls bouncing in a box forever and ever. I thought, I kept on thinking, I found that I couldn't stop. Rubber balls---forever---and---ever. They fascinated me. How valuable they might become by being made visible! What lovely children's toys they would make if one could color them. They would not only amuse the fretful baby, but they would have the additional advantage of training the young mind in physical paths. The infant's mother, instead of dangling a foolish pink rattle before her child's eyes, could save years of future worry by teaching it-in baby talk, if she pref ered the molecular theory of mag-
netism ! The lovely little molecules could also be utilized in-but I realized with a start that we had progressed to thermal conductivity!
My mind stared vaguely at the problem dealing with the thermal conductivity of air passing through sheets of ice. Of course, circumstances may arise under which I shall be glad to remember the formula. If for example, I ever fall through the ice on a pond, I have no doubt that I shall be a good deal cheered to know-while shriekin for aid-that four tenths of a degree of heat is passing through each square meter of surface as long as I stick there. And if I ever take up engine driving, it will be quite a comfort to know the thermal conductivity of the iron shell of my locomotive boiler when the temperature is falling at the rate of eight hundred degrees per centimeter. (I'm afraid, though, if the temperature ever does such a curious trick, that I'll be too terrified to give a passing thought to my locomotive!) Besides, any information is a help on examination ... Meanwhile, the rest of the class had passed on to a discussion of music.
I am truly delighted to find that the sole difference between music and noise lies in the fact that one is periodic and the other is not. I have long suspected such a kinship-with some music I mean---not all. And at last I have a thought with which to sooth myself when the little girl next door begins -her piano practice just when I am trying to begin my themes. I know that the frequency of middle C is two hundred and sixty fouronly two hunderd and sixty four. I hope that this means what it seems to mean. As an experiment I shall count during the practice hour tomorrow, and when middle C goes over the two hundred and sixtieth mark, I shall hurry over and warn the child's parents-well meaning people, though, I now suspect, not well versed i n t h e
physical branch-that their daughter is violating an established law of physics.
If my attempt is successful I shall be infinitely encouraged, for of late I have been frequently ignored in setting forth my store of knowledge. (When I remarked at supper last night that heat could be radiated from hot chocolate by radiation, conduction, ;rnd convection, mother stopped her which-man-for governordiscussion only long enough to smile at me ab sently . And yesterday my small brother yawned frankly when I volunteered to explain to him the Difference of Potential.) If my experiment turns out badly I ·shall immediately drop physics from my course, giv.: away my book. and say with the Elephant's Child, "This is doo butch for be."
en jfirst urimrs
A. B. CLARK, '23
The outstanding features of memory are those experiences and thoughts which prompted new sensations. After certain actions become habitual, involuntary, their excitement is lost and the second experience is never like the first. It is a constant subject of conversation with older people how they did certain things for the first time. Their minds revert with greatest pleasure to the "first times" of their early days, and their supply of such experiences seems limitless. If at the age of twelve we should have to live within the bounds of past experiences, life would be a long, monotonous cycle, for the variety of life is what adds flavor and enjoyment to our three score years and ten. What is the fundamental of romance and adventure? Nothing but the meeting of new and different conditions, applying ine xper ienced judgment, and struggling with strange circumstances. Our emotions are strongest when first applied but with frequent usage they become passive and feeble. The child shouts with glee at the sight of a new, different toy, while the aged man watches with apparent unconcern the marvelous inventions of today and often casts a sceptical eye upon them because his mind tells him he has seen all things of interest and that there is nothing new under the sun.
- Even in our brief lives there have been those "first times" which still bring a thrill of anticipation or a smile of genuine happiness. Although they may appear silly and foolish now, they are the components of whatever judgment, whatever for-thought we can now exert. Time, with its quaint mellowing influence, has worn off the
rough edges of these "first times" and memory wears them only in pleasure and happiness.
We are all human. As children, we experienced, with slight exception, the same joys, sorrows, anticipation, and humiliation. Environment with its powerful influence modifies greatly onr lives, but we are so much a like that I am sure that among such little experiences as I sha ll recount, there will be at least or_.~which will remind you of so me "firs t time" in your life.
It is possible to go back to baby days for "first times", because there is the greatest quantity, but those memories are always clouded and indistinct in spite of the number of new sensations. But doubtless among those happy days we will recall the time we had our curls cut off and thereupon became a regular boy! How we were thrilled at going to the barber shop; perhaps we balked a little at the door, then on the reception of a nickle, permitted the barber to remove the curls of which mother was so proud. And then what importance, what self sufficiency filled us as we came home with a smooth head which everyone seemed to think needed rubbing or tapping, and which felt as light as the heart that thumped at the realizatio n of our newly acquired prestige!
The first circus we ever attended seems to have had lots more attractions than all others. The clowns were funnier, the lions roared louder, the elephants were larger and everything was on a much large scale. When it was announced that we could go to the circus for the first time, the event became of much greater importance than the discovery of America or the signing of the Declaration of Independence! All the ecstacy so characteristic of the small boy for the circus, filled us, but never have we seen anything like the first one.
We must not overlook the first time we went to
school. If we were not bashful, nervous or homesick, we remember the feeling of importance that was ours when we were assigned to our first seat in school. Surely the memory of that day is as sacred as any to us, for it marked the beginning of one of our greatest experiences which perhaps has not ended yet. And truly we thought there was no greater happiness than ours when upon returning home in the afternoon we were hailed as a school boy!
Boys will be boys and what boy does not remember his first real fight? Ohl yes, we had quarrelled and argued but there was the first fight just other "firsts". We still think we were in the right and can almost feel the pounding of the little heart as it voiced its excitement and rose in "righteous indignation". If by chance of strength or flying fists we came out victorious, what a glorious feeling filled us, how we longed to tell mother about our prowess but did not dare for fear of a scolding or something worse l
As we have acquired age new "first times" have been experienced. Now they seem funny, so silly that we wonder how we so seriously comtemplated them at the time of their occurrence. Christmas lost the thrill which comprised it when we found out who Santa Claus was; we must enjoy the Fourth of July with reflections on the greatness of our ancestors, instead of disturbing our elders with fire-works, tin horns and cow-bells ;Halloween consists of parties where dignity and etiquette are requisites; Valentine Day has gone completely. All those experiences are dear in memory and yet we wonder how the children can put such enthusiasm and life into now apparently simple amusement. This is merely to show that the pleasure of children seem foolish to youth while those of youth probably take the same aspect in the eyes of age.
After we had reached the gawky, awkward age when gozlings and shyness before girls ~evelop, we shaved for the "first time"! That was one of the greatest accomplishments, so we thought, and oh! how of ten we compared the stiffness and rapidity of growth of our beard with that of our comrades, saying haughtily: "Oh I shaved for the first time, two years ago!" We felt we had at least acquired man's physical estate and the feeling of importance at being able to tell the family: "I have to shave!", has never been surpassed! And yet now, what would not give to be rid of the necessity of tornsorial operations?
How well we remember the first time we put on long pants! How tall and manly we felt! How we strutted before the mirror, never tiring of the sight of our stately) commanding(?) bearing! But when we knew our comrades were waiting at the door to welcome us in a rather unique way, our nerve failed and rather than brave the smiles of the neighbors whose attention would be attracted by the whoops and jeers of our playmates, we waited until it was dark or stealthily crept from the rear of the house! And then what a feeling of conspiciousness assailed us! It seemed that every passer-by stopped and rivetted his attention on our lanky, awkward ( so it felt!) appearance. We assure you it was genuine relief when we were back home and the "first time" was over. That was one "first time" which we were glad, more than glad, to pass.
Now we come to one of the most remarkable of "first times". Do you not remember the first time, you and you alone without the aid and probably without the knowledge of anyone in the family, made an engagement with a girl. We took refuge in the telephone where blushes are not recorded and where the absence of the proximity
of the beloved one renders us more audacious and grandiloquent. We undertook that "first time" with fear and trembling; we had worshiped from afar and we had pictured all kinds of wild romance, but when we asked for the first engagement, it was much harder than facing an army empty-handed, or translating Ceasar, or getting up on cold mornings! And when SHE granted our request, no ecstacy had ever equalled ours and we began to be "the happiest man in the world," which degree of bliss seems to arise at the will of any fair maiden!
Among later "first times" is that one when we kissed a girl, but no, we will not divulge those secrets, there may be too many uninitiated present and it is not our desire to instruct them for if we did the spice, the flavor, the animation would be removed and it is for this reason that we dispense with further explanation of this subject
This seem to bring us to the present day. Perhaps some time we shall be able to recount new and more impressive "first times", such as marriage. We will say: "The first time I got married ..... ". But there is no end to that subject; some are spending their whole lives discussing it! One thing is certain, there is only one man, or class of men , who can say: "There is only one time after birth which cannot be repeated," and that man is dead!
CHARLES FRANKLIN LEEK
Every year brings within the walls of this University a number of men, but as Goethe said, "There are many echoes but few voices", so also there are few men who have done as much for "Old Red and Blue" as Charles Franklin Leek. He came to this institution in 1918 from Chatham Training School. His home is in Baltimore. Apparently he is a man who loves Tennyson. I judge this from the fact that he carries out in action what Tennyson put in words when he said, "How dull it is to pause, to hesitate, to rust unburnished, not to shine in use; as though to breathe were life".
The University of Richmond will always honor Mr. Leek for the unlimited time, thought, and effort he has directed towards the success of our weekly paper The Collegian. He was made assistant editor the first year he came here. The first half of his second year he was associate editor and the second half of that year he was assistant again. He held this position on the Staff until one third of his third year had passed at which time he was elected · Editor-Ln-Ghie:t. He 1holds this ~pdsition today. Not being satisfied with what he has accomplished agreeing, as it were, with H. G. Wells when he said, "Whatever is, is, but the lure and symbol of what can be willed and done," he was instrumental in having representatives from all the different colleges in the south meet on our campus in a conference, the purpose of which was to create more interest in newspaper work. As the result, the Southern Newspaper Association was founded. Mr Leek was made president of the Organization.
His literary ability has reached farther than the Collegian as shown by the fact that he has for three years been Athletic Editor of the Spider, besides he is now Publicity Director, and has served as Annual representative of the Chatham Training School Club. Besides the above mentioned positions of honor Mr. Leek has served as Business Manager of the Messenger, Assistant Football Manager, Freshman Representative to Student Senate, Treasurer of Y. M. C. A., Chaplain, Critic and hall Manager of the Philologian Literary Society, Manager of Football, President of Omicron Delta Kappa, President of Maryland Club, and with all this he has for two years been pastor of Ridge Baptist Church where he preaches twice every Sunday.
The remarkable fact ab out it all is that he does everything well. Mr. Leek literally lives himself into your heart and thus he exemplifies the full meaning of the statement.
" What you are speaks so loud I cannot hear your voice".-"}. H."
CLAUDIA PATRICK
If you think of athletics at Westhampton, we instinctively think of Claud. From her Freshman year (that most memorable year of '18-'19 spent in town) she has given all her energy and enthusiasm to athletics. Although a town girl, within a few convenient blocks of "home" she stayed for athletics and worked hard and perseveringly. This has been her policy throughout her entire stay at Westhampton. Her persistances, her patience, her ever-readiness to work and help, soon were synonymous with her name. Although she did not make
a star athlete, she made a dependable athlete, which in the long run is the better.
'Tis not only on the athletic field that we find Claud, but anywhere "pep", work, or just plain fun is found, '22 knows what to expect of her and if there is ever a committee or a party without Claud, we wonder why. But you must find this out for yourself either from others or from observation. Claude is "mum" on the subject of Claud and her activities.
Yet another role is her role as friend. Always good humored, always ready with a hearty slap on the back and a word of encouragement-'Tis these that make Westhampton-ites declare, "Oh! she's the best 'sport' ever!"
In conclusion and as summary we say she won the Blue Tie.
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