'THE MESSENGER
Subacription Price $1.50 Per Annum
Entered at the Post Office at University of Richmond, Va., as second•class matter.
VOL. XLIX.
DECEMBER, 192 l No. 3
Richmond <:allege Department
R. T. MARSH, JR., '22________________________________Editor-in-Chief
A. B. CLARKE, '2J ____________________________________Assistant Editor
0. L. HITE, '22 ____________________________________Business Manager
G. S. MITCHELL _______________________Assistant Business Manager
C. W. NEWTON ------------ -------Exch ange Editor
ASSOCIATE EDITORS
Mu Sigma Rho Philologian
W. G. KEITH R. E. GARST
8. U. DAVENPORT C. W. NEWTON C. G. CARTER
Westhampton ColJege
THELMA HILL ______________________________________Editor-in-Chief
PEGGY BUTERFIELD _______________________________Assistant Editor
PEGGY BUTERFIELD _____________________________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 communi- cations and subscriptions should be directed to the Business Manager and Assistant Business Manager, respectively.
Address-
THE MESSENGER, University of Richmond, Va .·
THE MESSENGER ~bttortal
Without a doubt one of the impressive characteristic's of a group of young college men is the Callege spirit with which they are filled. In a great Custom majority of cases it is true that the older the college is, the stronger is the spirit. If a millionaire were to erect a magnificent, ultra -modern group of dormitories and lecture halls and hire the best teachers that money could obtain, and also if the first session of this school opened with a capacity enrollment, yet there would be lacking one essential to insure success . There would be absent that vital atmosphere which pervades the old institution,-that necessary element of mutual interest among the students,-that living, throbbing, moving spirit which binds the student to his Alma Mater, makes him feel that he is an important part of the whole, and inspires him to great things. This abstract essential can not be purchased. It can be had only by long and slow development. Of course this development can be facilitated and perhaps accelerated by favorable conditions, but years of practicing and handing down rules, customs, and traditions are necessary before the best spirit can be had.
The University of Richmond, compared with some schools, is relatively young. Still it is three quarters of a century old, which after all, does not make it recent in ongm. Through these years, though changing f r o m one campus to another, certain traditions and customs have become fixed and inherent with the student bodies and many ancient rules have become unwritten laws. We would discuss here one of the old customs handed down from the hands of our fathers , and consider what it used
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to be and what it now is. Oh, it has changed, but whether for better or for worse remains to be seen.
The Freshman Banquet! what a series of delightful memories those words recall! Old alumni became gay and laugh at those fond recollections. The undergraduates remember the joy£ ul occasion as if it had been but yesterday. The pictures that flash into these two groups' minds are different and their emotions vary. We shall try to depict the old and the new.
This is how it used to be. Forbidden to organize, the Freshman gather on a cold, dark night in some secluded spot, believing1 ithat they are triumphing over the Sophomores, and they proceed to proudly e 1 e ct officers and gleefully plan for a Freshman Banquet. Absolute secrecy is to be maintained about all of the proceedings, for this particular Freshman Class is going to show the Sophomores, as they have never been shown before, that era£ tiness can overcome sophmoric wisdom. Their plans, though, are always found out and the newlyelected officers, like martyr's bear innumerable indignities and suffer punishment in sphinx-like silence. The sacred date is still a secret and shall remain so, even though the most fiendish tortures be used. Time passes. At last the great night arrives. Very cunning and sly plans have been thoroughly worked out to foil the hated enemy. If any violence is attempted the class as a body will jump in and completely overwhelm .the foe. At first all goes well. The ride to town is uneventful, the banquet takes place in great style, the speeches are wonderful, the girls are beautiful and everybody has the time of his life. Then the ride home starts. At the beginning everyone laughs and talks and is in the best of spirits. Furtive glances now and then are exchanged among the men. Conversation becomes erratic, spas-
modic, finally dying out altogether. As the too speedy car approaches its destination the grim, determined look on the silent faces gives way to a nervous haunted expression. The car stops and a huge mob waits outside . The girls are separated from the boys and hurried away in the darkness. Crack! Crack! Are those gunshots which puncture the sharp night air !...............And then the rooms look like a Kansas Cyclone has been cutting up in them! Tired, humbled, aching, but inwardly happy , the Freshman sinks down on a pallet and goes to sleep. He has attended his Freshman Banquet! ·
This is how it is done in our present days of civilization. Early in the fall the Freshman Class is called together by the President of the Student Government and it is organized. In a month or two ( no hurry at all) the coming Banquet is casually mentioned and a committee is appointed to prepare for it. Very probably the college newspaper will have in its weekly calendar the statement that on the next Wednesday night at 8 :30 P. M. the Freshman Class will banquet at the Richmond Hotel. It is an elaborate affair; the speeches fine; girls pretty; good things to eat; and interesting conversation. Then the young men take their girls home, go to their own rooms, get in bed and wonder whether or not Dr. Bitchell will call on them in class in the morning. They have attended their Freshman Banquet!
It is not our place to say whether the old or new plan is the better. Some pref er one, some pref er the other. The Freshman Banquet, though, is a great old custom which shall be practiced as long as our University continues to get new Freshmen. It helps to bind the new men together in their class and gives them a big taste , ( and one . of their first good tastes) of that prime essential for success, College Spirit. Long live all customs and traditions which work for the good of our school !
l\lIESSENGER
Jsolation
ELISA PEREz-S panish Student
Ever since I can remember I have been a person altogether different from everybody else, both in soul and in body. I felt that I was far apart from the rest of the world. Many times I wished I had been like the other girls whom I saw in the streets as I sat in my balcony, or like those I admired in the public gardens where our nurse used to take us for walks.
It may be possible that everybody shares with me the same thought and has had the same experience, and that it is really peculiar to every human being.
Here are some of the experiences which threw me ever since the early days of my childhood into that atmosphere of isolation I am talking about.
"Don't you come to our school?"
"Why don't you go to mass?" were the questions I was asked by the neighboring children whenever w e moved to a new place.
"No"-said I shyly.
"Why ?"-would be the next question. And as I could not answer right away, one of the girls would do it for me, while the others kept making signs to each other and trying to keep away from me.
"Why! don't you know she is a protestant?"
Yes, I was a protestant, then about six years old, and not able to understand clearly what the word really meant. To be a protestant in a place where there is a strong catholic fanaticism, and where the constitution of the country does not allow religious liberty, is something like being a pariah in India. I noticed that the neighboring children did not come to make friends with me.
My mother told me how she had been sent away from home when she became a protestant. Now and then, the people at home would speak of the inquisition and those old days when protestants were burned to ashes in the Plaza de la Fueute Doranda and the Campo Grande. Two public places of Valladolid, the beautiful city of Castile, where we were living at that time. Valladolid was once the capital of Spain, in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. The "autos de fe" or horrible shows where the heretics were burned to death, were a display of luxury and cruelty. There the spanish martyrs of the reformation gave their lives in fruitless sacrifice to religious freedom. When I heard thAt, I was glad not to have lived in those days, and I felt that I could never have been brave enough to stand being burned for the sake of my faith.
My father was then a minister. We lived not far from the meeting place, which was just a small room in a second story of an apartment of simple appearence. The members of our church were few and old. The walls were white to which were fastentd some B i b 1 e verses with gilded nails. Sometimes my father could not preach; he had to visit other little congregations which had even poorer meeting pl aces than ours, in the little white towns scattered all over the wheat plains of old Castle. All these little flocks were tremblingly, yet bravely, enduring the persecution of the catholics who seemed to survive with the spirit of despotism of the Cruel Philip the second.
When my father was away, one of the oldest members of the church. an honest baker, took his place behind the little table, and tried to make some sort of a sermon. I remember seeing him as he gesticulated. I used to like his white silver beard, his shiny bald head
and slender body. I have never missed a sermon since I was a baby ; I remember my sleeping in church and my awakening to find with a great disappointment that I was not in bed.
The congregation was small and so the music was not especially good, yet I enjoyed it immensely. I sat on a chair to look in the hymnal with mother. She loved to sing, always sang alto, which made me v e r y embarrassed, as I always thought she was out of tune.
Now and then our music was disturbed by singing and shouting in the streets; it was the people who came back from a romeria, one of the religious country f estivals celebrat~d in the fields and mountains, where the virgins and saints have a shrine or sanctuary. Then the preacher stopped and said some words with regard to the considered pagan festivity, and I felt more than ever that an entire different world was passing under the balconies of our little meeting place.
As I said, we were living in Valladolid, the most attractive city. We had a lovely apartment in an avenue facing the river so that we enjoyed the view of the large Pesuerga, as it approaches its junction with the Duero. Both s ides of the river wer evergreen with gardens and woods of mulberry trees. In winter, when it rained hard and of ten, the river grew and grew, and tried to jump over the fence which faced the little ravine that went down to the water side. People said they could remember a winter when the river inundated all the city . Nobody knew if it felt like doing it again. That made me afraid nearly all the winter until the waters came down again to its former place, when the rain stopped.
We were four sisters, Mother fixed for us a sort of play-room in the trunk room. The trunks were there accidentally, but to me it seemed as if they were our toys,
some served us as little tables. There was one that I used as a pulpit to address some sermons to my sisters, who sat quietly, playing that they were listening with reverence.
We moved to another town. The love of adventure made me thrill whenever I heard that we were to live in another place. We moved quite of ten. Perhaps one of the reasons I did not mind leaving was that I felt no friends, and everything that was dear to me was moving along with me.
We now lived in an old moorish town, built right on the top of a very high mountain, which stood in the middle of the plain like one of the Pyramids of Egypt. Ancient walls, now and then accessible through arched gates, surrounded the town. The streets were narrow and steep. Through the iron barred windows of the white house showed the red carnations and the green sweet basil.
Here the protestants did not have a special meetingplace, we met in a little kitchen of an old house, and sang our hymns with the accompaniment of the boiling kettle by the fire place. The peasants had their hats on during the service but took them off when prayers were conducted. Sometimes a young man brought his guitar and the hymns were sweet when he played them. The protestants liked to meet in that little kitchen, because it was the place where they first assembled in secret.
As I can not keep the record of all our movements, I am only going to write a few words about the last. We moved unexpectedly to a new territory where I had the most interesting experiences.
"Are you a protestant?" I was asked in my new dwelling place.
"Good for you!" was the answer. "We are glad to have you here, come and join our service on Sunday in
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"Yes"-said I, not no w so shyly, the little church down yonder."
I looked down and saw the little slender steeple of a church and heard the bell ringing. It was hard for me to believe that so much good was all true. I felt as the ugly duckling of the story, as one who after many difficult adventures and hard experiences, had at last found the place where I belonged; at last he was one among the others. There was to be no more isolation.
&unstt
C. T. KINCANON, '24
Great God! What a sight that entrances my eyes, That enraptures my senses and bears me away; An unexcelled spectacle-crimson-htted skies-, _As King Sol in his majesty closes the day!
If ever the poet within me has burned, If ever my thoughts were deserving of pen, If ever my soul to Almighty was turnedAh Pysche, my friend! Never more than 'twas then!
But pen would refuse to record the rare thought, For words would not flow to be writ by the pen;
An attempt by an artist to paint-'twould be noughtThat God-given vision to weak mortal men.
What man does there live, who can look and not see The proof of a God and immortality!
ELSIE WARE, '22
"Say, Red, I hear you've taken to the mill district! How do you like your new home?''
"I'll say it's great! . I'm getting accustomed to the smell of corned beef and cabbage. I'll bet there is no place in the city as keen on the friendship stuff."
"Behold Red, the slum worker, the friend of the factory girls!"
The ruddy face of the tall young man became slightly redder at comment of the other, and the blue eyes flashed for an instant.
"Don't get funny, Bill. You know it's my one big chance for making a hit with the editor, and you may be darned sure I'm going to take advantage of it. Come down and see me some evening. It will do you good to hobnob with the slum people."
As he went through the doorway, the sun glittered on the waivy red hair which together with his complexion had given Arch Warren the nickname of "Red".
"I hope I didn't tread on Red's toes. He's a good old sport, always has something funny to say. But beneath his gay exterior there is more depth and seriousness than his red head signifies," commented Bill to himself.
As the young newspaper man entered the door of the tenement house, built in sight of the railroad tracks, he paused to speak to the girl who stood there.
"How's the book coming along? Have you learned anything new to-day about the folks down here?"
The friendly query awakened a responsive look in
the dear, open face . The ready sympathy brought forth a quick reply.
"Answering your last question first, I haven't. As to the first, I believe the answer will obviously be, not at all. The girls consider me an intruder, and seem to resent my presence here. But I'm not going to give up. Have you found your big story?"
"Not yet, but soon, I hope. I'm getting to know everybody and to feel quite at home in the tenement. Soon I'll be as great a nuisance as Rags here."
With a quick movement, he stooped and patted the head of the tenement waif, the ownerless pup, Rags. It was an appropriate name, for he was only a little, energetic yellow cur,craving love and understanding from everyone. Of course, he expected both, for didn't he give them freely and promiscuously? With a frisky tilt of his small head and a brisk wagging of his long tail, the dog smiled at his tall friend.
There was something about these two young people that only Rags could understand. It was perfectly clear to him that neither of them was ready to fall in love. They were too intent on their incessant writing to think of each other, except in comradely terms. Rags thought it was a great shame. But as yet, he couldn't think of a thing that he could do, unless it was to thrust his pert little self upon them, and draw their talk to a common subject, himself.
That night, he accompanied Red to his room on the fifth floor of the dingy building. His keen nostrils detected the odor of candy, and his shrewd wit kept him near it. The reward was not long delayed, for on reaching the scantily furnished room, Red drew forth a bag of chocolates.
"There, old man, help yourself, you are surely a good lesson in cheerful patience. I believe you'd stand
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there wistfully grinning at me all evening until my patience gave out. By the way, I bought you a regular supper to-day," he continued, rummaging in his overcoat pocket. "How does sausage sound?"
He smiled whimsically at the quivering little animal. "It's people like you that get along in this old world. If everyone had as darned much grit and push as you, this world would be a whooping success."
Rags acknowledged this by every means i n h i s power. He eagerly ate the candy and sausage, and, licking his chops expectantly, he rubbed his dirty little head against Red's long legs.
"I swear, I believe you have an india -rubber s tomach!"
Red, looking into the eager upturned face, caught an expression in the big eyes which he interpreted to be hungry anticipation. He couldn't see the little dog's soul, ( for dogs do have souls!) that longed to do something big for his unselfish friend. Rags, who had been knocking around the world by himself for most of his short life, recognized a man when he met one.
The yellow dog shivered as Red put him on the fire escape for the night. He looked at Warren in utter dejection, his ears at angle s of forty-five degrees and his tail trailing between his crooked leg s . But no sooner were the lights out than h e started on his nightly prowl.
At a late hour, he turned towards the tenement he called home, ( there the p eople feel him most.) As he reached the railroad tracks, he stopped to let the train pass. He saw the red glare from the engine and noticed the glorious sparks playing here and there. Being a dog, he thought only of the way they sputtered and wondered if they would hurt him. Sniffing as he went, he meandered home.
Presently his nostrils quivered as he caught a different odor. Keenly alert, he tried to make it out. There came into his busy brain the time he had burnt his black nose on Red's pipe, trying to find out what smelt so peculiarly. He became gradually excited until his short hair stood on end and his tail pointed skyward. His head held high, he ran here a,nd there until suddenly he reached his own fire escape.
Then seeing a red flame leap up, he gave a short yelp. His first thought was of Red and of what this thing might mean to him. He recognized his big chance to help his friend, but his cur-dog ancestry held him back. There, the many times .the man had fed him and petted his homeless little self flashed into his mind. With a quick dart, he bounded up the fire escape to the fifth floor window. There, he gave short, agitated barks in his high voice. They came so suddenly and so piercingly that Red jumped up, startled. Rags continued to yelp. The noise brought Red, wonderingly, to him.
"What's the matter, Rags? Has something hurt you?" he inquired, putting soothing hands on the dog's excited body.
The leaping leering flames glared as the man leaned from the window.
In almost an instant, Red had awakened the people. All was in the greatest confusion. There were the cries of children and the shrieks of frightened women. Above the uproar, the voice of the men shouting hasty directions could be faintly heard. After the first panic was over, Red thought of the girl alone in her third floor room . He fought his way to her room, and found her at the door wrapped in a cloud of thick smoke. With great difficulty, he succeeded in getting her to the fire escape wher she could make her way alone to the ground.
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Then Red went back to a few panic-stricken people that remained imprisoned in the doomed building.
The morning paper starred the story of the night's fight. Red was not sure whether it was his big hit or that of the forlorn, lonely pup. The main character in the write-up was a frisky yellow cur-dog, by name, Rags.
Although the hero of the hour, the dog was happily oblivious of having done anything out of the ordinary. He was perfectly content to sit at the feet of Red and the young girl he had saved, and eat the largest, juciest, chocolates. Then the young couple for a moment forgot the little benefactor in talking over their newly-realized love, Rags, in wistful longing, sat patiently and faith£ully waiting, one ear cocked to listen, his high bright eyes missing nothing, and his tail plaintively beating a tattoo on the floor.
Jn ~c ~oob ®lb 1llap1,
GEORGE S. MITCHELL,
'23
Not long ago it was my good fortune to be thrown for a few minutes with Dr. Hugh C. Smith, a graduate of Richmond College in the class of 1878. He was, so I learned, one of the first men to arouse in the College an interest in Journalism, and came to be, thru an interesting series of events, one of the founders of "The Messenger."
During the college year of 1875-6 he, as a mere adventure into realms of caprice, put thru the idea of printing and selling among the students a small magazine, devoted almost entirely to humor. The first issue came out early in the session. Its size was 2¼ by 3½ inches, and it contained only four pages. Its cost was one which might well be imitated by our present-day college publications; five cents per copy. The mysterious title, the "Try-Monthly," was explained by whispered word. "It has come out this month, it will try to do so the next."
The wild hope was fulfilled and such was the success with which the tiny leaflet met that the Editor was encouraged to attempt to fill the real need for some form of news and literary sheet by a larger publication.
It is interesting to note that a copy of one of the two issues of the "Try-Monthly" was for many years preserved in a glass frame in the old museum, which existed and was a source of great pride in the days before the college came to Westhampton.
After a fruitless attempt to get the Philologian and Mu Sigma Rho Literary Societies to combine in the publication of a larger magazine, Smith, with some of his
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friends, organized a joint stock company composed of twenty men on the campus, each of whom contributed five dollars. This undertaking was endorsed by Professors H. H. Harris and J. L. M. Curry. With the hundred dollars capital thus secured the Company bought the type and other material neccessary for arranging the forms, and proceeded with the Magazine. The type was set on the campus by students and was carried to a Richmond Firm for printing. The publication was called the "Monthly Musings," a name which some of our students of Shakespeare may recognize. It was about the size of the "Saturday Evening Post" but contained only eight pages, and printed on its three-column pages news items as well as literary productions. Among its many disting1uishedi contribu;tors was Mr. Edward Valentine, the Richmond Sculptor. Of this magazine the first editors were B. T. Davies, who has since died, J. W. Snyder, now living in Oklahoma, J. Howard Gore, a distinguished scientist in Washington and one of the editors of the "National Geographic Magazine," and Hugh C. Smith, Editor-in-Chief.
The "Monthly Musings" was published regularly for two years. With the graduation of the editors the magazine was again proffered to the Literary Societies, on the condition that the original stockholders in the Company were to receive life subscriptions. This time the offer was gladly accepted and publications under the new management began in 1878, with the name of the Magazine changed to "The Messenger." Its life since that date has been continually one of influence and achievement.
Dr. Smith attended Richmond College for four years, and was active in all forms of college life. He was a member of the Phi Delta Theta Fraternity and of
the Philologian Literary Society. From here he went to the Southern Baptist Theological Seminary, and after his graduation there he entered the Baptist ministry . For forty-two years he has been a beloved pastor in Virgm1a. His home is in Bedford City. It is to such men and their unselfish creative effort that we owe the existence of many of our most cherished institutions here on the campus.
~uesttons
PEGGY BUTTERFIELD, '23
Tell me, fairy fire-fly, Did you come down from the sky?
Perhaps you used to flit and play All along the milky way.
Did earth seem so dark at night That you came to make it light?
Summer twilights, I have seen you,, Flashing twilights, I have seen you,
But I wonder where you go When the earth is white with snow?
Tell me, fairy fire-fly, Do you go back to the sky?
€:onntt~tnttuortb'rs~ccomplirsbment
CECIL G. CARTER, '22
"How times and young people have changed , " chimed in Mr. Wentworth, "Here's Connie"-
"Never mind, Charles," said Mrs. Wentworth to her husband. "Connie is like all other young men and you must not worry yourself about him." Mrs. Wentworth who was perfectly devoted to her only son always took his side regardless.
"But when I was young," continued Mr. Wentworth , "I wasn't always concerned about parties, teas and tennis. Hardly an evening has passed this June that Connie hasn't had to attend some dance or outside party. Instead of ever taking time to engage in reading or pleasant conversation."-
Mr. Wentworth's speech was cut short at this point by the entrance of his young son through the front door of the Wentworth home. Closing this quietly, Connie hung his hat on the hall rack, walked the hallway and entered the room where his father was seated.
He was a tall, slim, handsome youth of twenty, with dark brown hair and gray eyes. His good appearance along with his friendliness and lively humor made him extremely popular, especially with the young I ad i es.
Now that he was home from college he was always the chief subject of his _father's conversation. Mr. Wentworth now turned and addressed him, shortly after he had entered the room.
"Son, you've been home from college two weeks. Your mother and I had hoped that you would rest a short while before going into anything definitely for the
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. ummer, you have now played long enough and I've come to the conclusion that it's time you were considering ~eriously doing something."
"VVell, Daddy, I am ready to help you in the business, TTl ·•· or at any time," Connie replied.
"I understand that, son, and appreciate it too; but you have no special liking for the work I give you. Of course you do well in the department where I place you, but that's about all. Why don't you try to accomplish something worthwhile this summer on your own initative ?"
Young Wentworth was an allround good fell ow; pleasant, affable, gay, he could play an expert game of tennis and do well those things which go to make life a pleasant occupation. But downright drudgery and hard work did not appeal to him.
The next day Connie called on Margaret Wellington. Margaret and Connie had known each other ever ince they were little tots. They had grown up and had gone to school together. The feeling and intimacy between them had developed to that of true sweethearts.
"Connie,"-it was Margaret speaking now, "father is planning to be away most of the summer and he intends to take mother and myself with him. They are anxious fo r me to spend my vacation profitably instead of attending parties and dances the whole summer. I like the idea too. I'm tired of candies and teas"-
"What is wrong anyway Margaret'?" Connit: asked irritably, "only yesterday Daddy said to me, 'Son why don't you do something worthwhile this summer?' "
"There's nothing wrong, Connie, only your father is anxious for you to do something which becomes a young man like you. To be more to the point, your father is desirous of you accomplishing something which will show that you've got the making of a man in you."
"Prove I've got the making of a man in me someway!" said Connie, slowly the truth dawning upon him.
"Yes, that is the idea stated clearly," Margaret answered. "Why don't you try to accomplish something, Connie? It would please me immensely. Your father has asked you to put forth an effort and I want to see you make good. You can do something else besides win tennis tournaments, I feel sure."
Connie's visit to :Margaret left him in a still greater disturbed state of mind. He felt as though he were in a quandary. In a few minutes he took his departure not in his usual good spirits, as on other former occas10ns.
"How can 1 prove my manhood and accomplish something worthwhile," Connie puzzled. "Sail the seven seas ! Rescue a beautiful girl from some impending doo m! Write a beautiful story or what? If I only knew b y what means it could be done!"
"I'll accomplish something," Connie said finally, full of sudden determination. "And I'll prove my manhood in some way."
Mr. Wentworth was somewhat surprised at his son's reque st to leave home to work. But it pleased h i m thoroughly. Mrs. Wentwor th however, would not think of permitting Connie to leave home until her husband persuaded her that it might be the making of their son.
" Let Connie experience the reality of hard work ," said his father. "It will benefit him vastly more than keeping him here at home and allowing him to idle his time away." His mother finally consented to his departure after so long a time.
The young son had determined to work hard. He was anxious to convince his father that he had the grit to tackle an undertaking even though he might not ac -
complish anything of great importance. Furthermore, Connie saw no other way of trying to prove his manhood at present, other than by hard work. By undertaking something hard and difficult an opportunity might be presented to prove one's ,courage and stability of character, he thought.
Building a dam is a great undertaking. The project called for brains-money-work. Men were to furnish these three necessary things. Capitalists, technical men, men from colleges, and lastly working men from everywhere, were to contribute and have a part in the monstrous task. And if necessary men were to risk their lives unflinchingly, endeavoring the while to serve and benefit the public. Time unmistakably proved these things to be true.
Connie was only one of the many, busily engaged at work on the great dam. At first he could scarcely grasp the immensity of the gigantic undertaking. B u t h e gradually came to see and understand the plan of this huge, launched project.
How he endured those first days of grinding toil under a burning sun was more than he could fathom. He felt more than once like giving up the task, but his one sole hope of trying to accomplish something worthwhile held him. He determined to stand the test or break under the strain. Instead of giving under the wearying load however, he became inured to the heat and hardened to the work, - unconciously, he became a factor in the mighty work of constructing the dam.
The cloudburst came suddenly. It came so quickly and unexpectedly that it caught everybody and everything unaware. Crops were damaged, property destroyed and loss of life resulted. A general havoc was created.
The day's work was done. Workingmen, who had
toiled throughout the day, were tired and hungry. They ate and slept to refreshen themselves for tomorrow's task unmindful of the storm without. Men who toil by hand of ten times fall into a routine of work and sleep unconsciously with an astonishing, unbroken regularity. Probably it was due to this daily grind of rest after hard work, which caused the workingmen to sleep on soundly thoughout the night, regardles of the storm. Their sleep always was a slumber of peaceful rest, unbroken or uninterrupted by outside happening.
Connie had been working with vim and vigor. He not only had worked with his hands but he had managed to keep his brain active. His keeness and alertness stood him in good stead also. He refused to exist merely as a workingman who falls into a state of lethargy and does his work mechanically, apparently unthinkingly and unknowingly. He did think. Had he lost his individuality entirely,he would never have been able to accomplish anything very noteworthy. What he accomplished was not by hard work solely. His insight and ability to see ahead caused him to stand out above the majority of his feliow when the time of crisis came.
The crisis came with the cloudburst. The river began to rise, it continued to rise and before long was overflowing the banks. What had hitherto been a smooth gliding, ribbon-like, flowing stream, was changed overnight into a gushing, foaming, roaring cataract. The river was rushing headlong; it threatened to wash away the great construction work. All night the dam had withstood the mighty torrent. With the coming of dawn the river's swelling had not ceased. The angry, dashing water, yellow and foamy in content, would soon have to have an outlet or with increased power, the great mass would force an opening some -
THE MESSENGER
where. Something had to be done or the dam would be completely swept away.
Connie was the first of all the workingmen to survey and to comprehend the scene. The deafening roar of the river as it swept on, brought to him the realization of the immediate danger. There was only one possible wal of saving the dam. The flume must be raised so the angry rush could roar through. An opening was necessary, imperative, in order for the surging, angry water to abate and calm its fierce heaving.
Young VI/entworth acted quickly without hesita..ion, realizing that the dam was in immediate danger of ,.,cing swept away at any moment. Already he perceived that timbers and other parts of concrete forms were gradually giving away. This sight made him redouble his efforts.
To reach the flume gate amid the mad roar of the river required courage. The way was fraught with dangers and difficulties and practically impassable. It could only be traversed by edging one's self slowly along , while at times, going was only possible by crawling and climbing hand over hand, sailor fashion, over the structure. W o rking his way cautiously over the concrete forms and heavy framework, Connie finally reached the flume gate. He tried to raise it but it seemed immovable . He p ulled a n d pulled relentlessly. Finally with a mighty tu g· h e succeeded in opening the passage. There was a sucti o n, imme d iately followed by a deafening roar . The n ex t minute everything went black to Connie Wentworth.
They found him limp and senseless where he had fallen. On top of him and around about was a fallen mass of timber which had given away. It was clearly evident that the frame work in falling had struck him unconsc10us.
Young Wentworth couldn't recall clearly where he was. He found difficulty in linking up the past. It was vague, haz y-even the nurse who attended up on him appeared far away. He wanted to talk and ask her some questions; he attempted to speak but his voice . eemed weak and hardly audible-
"\i\That am T doing here?" Connie asked the nurse freely.
"Oh that's all right, you must rest now," the nurse .-aid kindly.
He was u nconscious for two days. After he had regained consciousness and strength fully, the nurse let him read a newspaper clipping. It cheered him wonderfully. The account was about his saving the dam estimated at five hundred thousand dollars. The article went on to relate how the destruction of the dam would have been inevit ab le, but for the timely coolness and heroic action of a certain young Connie Wentworth . Further on, the account told about his accident, his being knocked senseless by the fallen timbers and taken to the ............hospital. The article closed by saying that the ........... Company realized that the young man had saved them a great financial sum and would make all accounts good.
"Don't you think that was a worthwhile undertaking?" Connie asked the nurse in all seriou.sne.ss after he had finished reading the article.
The nurse only smiled in answer to his query. The n she added, "I'll let your father who is here answer that."
After hearing about the accident, Mr. \i\Tentwor th had left his home to see his son immediately. As soon as Connie's condition permitted, his father took him home .
1\ir. and Mrs. Wentworth were overjoyed to have their so n at home once more. Hitherto they had been real anxious about him. Now that h e was r ecup erating .
along with his presence at home, brought his parents more inward pleasure than the thought of what he had accomplished.
"You needn't ever think of leaving home to try to accomplish the worthwhile anymore, Connie," his mother said gently.
"Yes," replied his father, "our son has accomplished something worthwhile and proved his manhood. His leaving home again for such a purpose won't be necessary."
"Mother, I'm calling to see Margaret this evening. Won't you help me get ready and please fix a clean bandage and sling for my arm, before I call."
"Mother is always glad to do anything for her boy," Mrs. Wentworth replied.
That memorable evening Margaret and Connie spent together. Connie was very happy to be with Margaret once more. As they sat out on the porch in the cool of the summer evening, Connie said, "I've done something else Margaret, besides win a tennis tournament, Daddy says I've accomplished something worthwhile and proved my manhood. But I want to know one thing more and you are the only one who can tell me . Margaret, I want to know if I've made good?"
Margaret looked away just then, but slowly she turned her pretty head and smiled ever so sweetly. They looked at each other and their eyes made them understand. Connie had undoubtedly made good.
B. U. DAVENPORT, '22
Just four seconds,-! see it now
In my dreams; the slippery street, The old lady with her face
Hid by an umbrella as she bent
To the wind; the lumbering truck
As it hurtled by and slapped her down. Twenty feet it skidded-with the woman On her face, writhing, her screams
Stifled by the cobbles.
Then the heavy wheel rolled over her body And thumped on the pavement beyond, Jarring the truck. The engine
Coughed once and stalled.
Paralysed by the swiftnessThe terrible swiftness of it allI stared open-mouthed,
While the terror stricken driver Climbed down and pushed the truck
Off of the huddled heap.
A little blood trickled from the place
That had been her mouth. Four seconds!
MESSENGER
~ngtls 'ltnatuarts
MIRIAM NORMENT, '23
"Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares ."
I have often wondered if Saint Pa ul ever did really extend his hospitality to one of the angels, and I truly hope he did. Just th ink how soul-sat isfy ing it wou l d have been to him to watch the transformation of some chance quest into a purple-winged glory wit h a flaming sword. Personally T do not crave the experience, nor does the normal human being, with a mov ie show imagination, look forward to any such adventure. It woul d be too-oh, well, you know, my dear, yo u are quite mad to think of any such thing . Hospitality h as come a long way since the Roman Empires fell , and it's really absurd to think one could entertain an angel unawares. Why where on earth would you meet him.
Saint Paul wouldn't have had to. A tall man with dusty foreign clothes would have come striding down the white road and Paul would have come down from his roof to meet him, but should such a person present himself at my front door tonight and ask to be invited to dinner I feel reasonably sure that he would be informed politely, yet firmly, that the servant's entrance is at the rear, and that if he is really hungry, Diana will be glad to give him something to eat in the k itchen.
This, then, limits our supply of angels, in fact, places all possibilities in two classes: people we h a v e recently been introduced to, and thos e whom we haven't seen for a Jong time. lt is hard, tho u g h , to ma k e an angel out of a perfect stranger. (Saint P a ul mu st h ave
had an excellent imagination.) You almost never get beyond the "Oh! do you live in Richmond? Then you must know Rosalie Davis" stage until the purple wings have faded to a dull gray and the might-have-been has become just another one of those vague people-I-know.
But friends from far away and long ago-oh, they are different. You know them, and yet you don't, and while, of course, you hardly think they will turn out to be honest-to-goodness, celestial beings you do at least look forward to their wings being slightly pink. Severely you remind yourself that this is only Bill Vaughan who used to go to High School and never rose beyond the rank of private in the Cadet Corps, but it is of no avail; you remember that he took you to your very first Cadet Ball, and therefore you immediately dab more watercolors on the wings.
At last Bill comes-but oh, the tragedy of it! Your Bill is gone, and in his place they have given you somebody who looks partly like a picture of what Princeton can do for a nice boy, partly like one of Mc Kuppenheimer's attractive ads, and a little like the first cousin of one of the Seraphin or some other important kind of angel. Only as you have read both "Paradise Lost" and "This Side of Pa radise" you're afraid its the kind F. Scott Fitzgerald and Milton treat of so fully. You don' t even want to ta ke the box of candy he brings you, b ecause you rem embe r how you used to put in fifty-fift y a nd make fudg e-w ith nuts in it, if Bill had just gotten his allowance.
But then you hear the rustle of wings-not Bill's this time, but probably those belonging to a real Seraph who has come to the rescue, and Bill says "Gee, Deedee, we've grown up, haven't we?" and suddenly that old nickname brings back the Cadet Ball Bill. You have
escaped from some dark, dark cell, and once more you are as near Heaven as one can be with her feet on the fender in front of an open fire and an old friend beside her to help straighten out all the cords that get so tangled in four years-and that is very near indeed. Your heart makes up a little tune and sings the same words over and over. "How pleasant it is to have friends come from afar." Poor Saint Paul! Perhaps he did entertain a real angel, but he was unaware of it, and you know that while Bill is not exactly a cherub, still neither is he quite an ordinary mortal-yet-and at least you know what he is, which is an advantage over Paul.
"How pleasant, how pleasant" you sing it until you feel all warm and rosy as if some of the water-color had spilled over on you. Vaguely you remember something you learned long ago from your "Child's Garden of Verses." It used to give you this same kind of feeling, so you add it to your little song. "The world is full of a number of things, I am sure we should all be as happy as Kings."
No King, no, not even Saint Paul and his unknown angel could be as happy as you are because a friendship has come back to you from afar with pleasant words and spreading purple wings.
®n
mellinga JLie
W. ELLYSON , JR ., '23
Scrambling along the rocky bed of a nameless stream Jonathan Chestley had suddenly seen the bright gleam in search of which he had spent the last nine years of his parched existence. Great was his rejoicing, and the light of unaccustomed smiles lit up his sun-baked face as he sto oped and fingered the nugget. Ah ! another and another! The very sand seemed to be made of gold.
H owever, night was coming and Jonathan Chestley was hungry. His provisions were out this morning and he had continued on his way to the town of Nugent, in hope of reaching it by night. It was while he was pursuin g hi s journey that he had discovered Gold, his Gold . Now h e must leave it for he must have meat; but he would return to it on the morrow.
Stuffin g his pockets with the precious metal until t hat in the sand alone remained, he reverently erected a cairn to mark his treasure , and commenced his journey to the town. The way was long, but he trod as if in a dream. On up the stream he trudged, hardly retaining his self-control until he could reach the town.
He pictured to himself a swaggering entrance into the Nugent Saloon, with a generous cry of "Drinks on me." This, the great moment of his life, the turning of the tide,-was to be celebrated in true style by Jonathan Chestley.
He would shove his nuggets over the counter in payment for a flow of wine such as had never before been witnessed. Ah! his nuggets, but they would want to know where he found those nuggets. Then they would
get his Gold. Suppose he would not tell them? Then they might kill him.
But Jonathan Chestley possessed all of the cunning of a man who had spent three-fourths of his life battling with the forces of nature and puzzling the enigma of human nature for a bare existence, in which the survival of the fittest was the creed. His instinct told him that any direction given by a half-drunken man for the location of gold, the proof positive of the existence of which he held in his hand, would not be over-questioned or doubted in the race for its possession. He had it. He wo uld tell them that he had found the gold above the t own some ways up the stream. Then the next morning, when all had gone in search of his treasure, he would slip with his provisions dO\vn the creek, to his Gold, and no one would be wiser. He would establish the bounda ries and fix his claim.
The lights of Nugent were gleaming in the distanc e ere he was thru with his planning. The lighted saloon was easily discernible. Towards this he directed his footsteps. All was ready for a triumphant entrance. The piano was going at a lively tilt and the house was in an uproar. His hand on the latch, Jonathan Chestley paused to gain his composure, and to change the sneerin g smile of cunning to one of sheer joy and wild hilarity .
All talking ceased in the saloon as the dishevelled p rospector walked up to the bar and, loudly calling for drinks , flung a hand£ ul of nuggets across the counter . Everyone responded to his invitation. The gold of Jonathan Chestley's cheerfully was spent in payment. T he liquors flowed a plenty, as also did the questions. Reticent at first, he soon loosened up, aided by the whiskey, perhaps. Wonderful tales he told of the gold above the town. He even made it more valuable than his own down the stream.
All Nugent paid homage to Jonathan Chestley; that is, those who did not slip off up the river. The dancing girls smiled upon him and carressed him as never before. Arrogant bosses of the town and bold reputed bad men of the country patted him on the back. Some called him ' ·Pard". In fact the town belonged to him that night.
As the night grew on, he grew drunker and drunker . Would-be-friends who desired him to accompany them up river, found him bent only on satisfying his thirst which had been long accruing. Gradually the hangers-on fell off. The sleepy turned in; the awake drifted up river. Jonathan Chestley gathered some supplies, so that he could leave in the early morning. Becoming more and ·more saturated, he gradually was neglected and slipped drunkenly out of the saloon. He was soon lost from view.
Early morning saw him sneaking stealthily out of the town, heavily laden, for down the river direction . Reaching his claim, before the sun had as yet reached its zenith, he made sure that no one had molested it while he had been gone. Then he sat to work making himself comfortable, and getting all in readiness for a successfull operation of his diggings. Jonathan Chestley bided his own time, confident in his security and his wealth. A few hours work the first day netted him a few ounces of precious dust and he was content.
For a few days the initial sand deposit sufficed him . By the end of the week, it was all gone. Looking up and down the stream he found little washes here and there, but none of value. Well, this was not after all the cherished find. He had better be _ traveling along . Ere long he shouldered his pack and journeyed along the Nugent.
He walked unnoticed into the saloon. Taking a
48 THE MESSENGER
stand at the bar, away from the crowd, he drank his liquor silently.
"You say it is a rich deposit," said a voice, at his elbow.
"Yes, the richest in these parts," was the rejoinder.
"It is a wonder that it was never discovered, for its washes are noticeable far down the creek."
"How did they happen upon it any how."
"Well , some old fossil of a prospector found the thing, and came here and got drunk and spilled the beans. "
" Didn't he get any part of it tho?"
" No, he must have gone on a big spree, for he has never been heard from in these parts since."
Jonathan Chestley slipped quietly out of the town.
anb Wlbo'~to Jilamt?
(Dedicated to my friend, Mr. J. E.)
W-'24
My heart is made of stone you say! I don't deny 'tis true; But stop and think what made it so, To whom the blame is due. It's like the coal which men do mine, From deep down in the earth; Which cold and hard and shining now, We see upon the hearth; Yet once, it danced before the sunBedecked with diamond dew, And fresh and green, it bowed and waved When-e'er a zephyr blew.
But then, a shock upheaved the earth, The sun no more was seen; The ferns and shrubs began to fade, And lose their gaudy green. As pressure grew, and time passed by, More hardened grew their frame; Until, at length, by stone inclosed, They like the stone became. The ferns so tender were, a blow Or e'en a touch might break; The coal has power to crush and kill Those falling in its wake; And yet, the ferns cannot be blamed, Because they're now like stoneThey yielded to superior strength, Which overcame their own. There was a time-'twas long ago,
When like the fern, was I; And when my heart was bent and swayed, By each glance from a maiden's eye. And then came one, who seemed to me, lvl ore gracious than the rest] humbly knelt down at her feet, And offered her my best. She seenie_dto care, and my bright hope, Did sparkle like the dewBut soon she tired, and turned away; Cold grew her eyes of blue. Robbed of it's sun, my heart did droop, And grew less fresh and green; My feeling for her disappeared, But still, her mark was seen. I was not half so tender when The second one appeared; And yet, she seemed so innocent, I did what I had fearedAnd having at her mercy placed Ll1yself, her interest waned; That ended it with her exceptM y · heart more hardness gained. The third was one I trusted, and Admired as a friend, And when she too, I found untrue , All confidence did end. This was the last fierce pressure, that Compressed the molten massThat made it stony, hard and cold, Unmoved by winds that pass. My heart is stony, I admit, I'm sorry that it's trueAnd who is there to blame for it, But others just like you?
JJmagination in alrtttng
LouisE WILKINsoN, ,z4
Imagination, in so far as it concern s writing, is a quality generally conceded to poets, writers of fairy tales, and newspaper reporters. Here we are prone to confuse imagination with fancy. · Fancy weaves the manyhued textures of the poet's dream, peoples the moonlit forest with dancing spirits, or converts a trivial incident into a front page "thriller". It is the writer's imagination, however, which enables him to present these things so that they will appeal to us. Fancy is not necessary to all writing; imagination is as indispensable as language itself. In the case of an historian, for instance, fancy would hardly be commendable. Whereas, in order to permeate himself with the spirit of the past, to look upon the events of which he writes with the eyes of those who actually saw them, and even more, to compel his readers to do the same, he must bring to bear upon the subject every whit of imaginative faculty which he possesses. A realist is often identified as one who describes 1ife as he sees it, without drawing upon his imagination . What an absurdity! How could he see life, how interpret it in all its comple xit y, had he not that ability to enter into the hearts and minds of others and look upon life from their point of view?
The prin;ie object of all writing is the conveying of a message, a thought, to the world or to some part of it The author is but an instrument to this end, an intermediary between the subject and the reader. He will succeed in his purpose just so far as aided by his imagination, he allows himself to be grasped and directed by his subject, directed always towards the reader's most vulnerable point.
Just think of the books that have appealed to you from earliest childhood, and see how this principle applies. There were your first loves, the nursery rhymes. How perfectly they were suited to the understanding of the little mind just beginning to distinguish and identify the objects in its limited world!
"Three little kittens lost their mittens,"-Why, you had a kitten! Fine, it didn't happen to have mittens, but you had them and you knew that to lose them and to be scolded for it was the most natural thing in the world. So you were able to sympathize perfectly with the kittens' plight, and in so doing, your own imagination grew and developed.
Then, as you began to be concerned with the "why" of what you saw, the fairy tales came to explain everything by turning your world into a dream-land. Every flower was c!- princess under the spell of some wicked fairy; the most commonplace houses become enchanted castles; and the bull dog down the street, who barked whenever you passed, was a fright£ ul monster guarding the tower where a captive maiden was awaiting the fairy prince. I am inclined to believe that these stories made their appeal quite as much to the adventurous heart of the child as to his mind. Certain it is that grown-ups who have long ago "put away childish things" mentally, are still held enthralled by the magic of firelight and fairy tales. Perhaps it is the inevitable ending and the hope it inspires that attracts them, I do not know. I only know that there is ever a light in their eyes and a spring in their step that makes one wonder if they have drunk of the Fountain of Youth.
Perhaps, though, you have forgotten your nursery rhyme days and no longer care for fairy tales. If such is true, I pity you. You have not, nevertheless, escaped
from imaginative literature, nor will you, so long as you read worthwhile books. Consider the classics. Why have they lived through the centuries and been read by generation after generation? Is it not because their authors have sounded the very depths of human experience, have been able to discern that which is eternal in the soul of man, and to this have directed their message? Literature that deals with a single period, such as was literature, is seldom enduring, for it is written to satify only a passing frame of mind. The books which last are those in which the writer has caught the real spirit, the fundamental principles underlying his observations, those things which will strike a responsive chord in the hearts of all who read, whether in his own or in a future time.
Imagination is, after all, little more than sympathy. No one who does not love his fellow-men and desire to serve them is justified in writing. However powerful may be his thoughts, however enlightening his message, they come into their full beauty and usefulness only when responded to by other minds. And minds, like flowers, respond to the sunshine, but are tightly closed to the wind.
~ackdotfJanb~sbts
G. E. P., '23
Truly, it was not my fault at all. It was all on account of that black and gold blouse. Black and gold are a dangerous combination anyway, but when you have velvet brocade on black satin, which reminds you of black snakes in a field of California Poppies the result is-well, striking to say the least. Have you ever had a dress that you knew was going to be exciting from the minute you put it on? Every time I wore that blouse I felt as though I must do something desperate. I did it! And now the blouse is hanging on the very back hook of my closet, and I don't even dare to take it out and look at it. But the worst of it is that I got all the blame, just because I was inside of that naughty blouse when it missbehaved. I know perfectly well it never would have happened if I had been inside of-say, a pink organdie. ( I can see your eye brows jumping up to whisper to your spit curl, but it's so, just the same).
Ever since fig leaves were in vogue people's moods have been altered, even created by the clothes they wore, and the way they fixed their hair.
In the middle age people wore sackclothes and ashes as a sign of great grief and humiliation. They would give you the impression that it was because of their state of mind, but my personal opinion is that the wearing of it did much to influence their state of mind. Goodness knows the very thought of touching sackcloth and ashes is enough to make anyone altogether stricken with grief and humility. Mourning is another form of sackcloth. When one is wearing it, one can't help feeling sad. It is certainly ugly enough to have that effect.
But the first day one starts wearing colors, the whole world is brighter.
There is the time-honored love of association which every girl conciously, or unconciously applies to her clothe s . I can not imagine myself, under any circumstances, doing anything shocking in the dress I joined t he church in. I will always feel extremely patriotic when I put on the dress 1 wore when I bought the liberty bond from that handsome officer. And the dress you wore the first time you were ever kissed! (Yes, dear men, we were all kis sed a " first time", you know , in spit e of your doubt s, and that was probably the only time we didn't insist that it was the first time.) The dress a girl wor e then is always ju st a little sacred . And when she comes home from college and finds her smalJ sister impudently :flaunting it in her face, she really shouldn't be held responsible for anything she might do , any more than I should have been held responsible f or that snake and poppy blou se . But 1 was. I really couldn't explain the psychology of clothe s to the Stud en t Council. No, I'm not going to tell you what I did . I have already confessed to the whole council and that is enough for one crime. It is terrifying to confess to them, too! I wouldn't have minded half so much if they hadn't made me do it at midnight. When J entered that solemn room, full of eyes, all focu sed on me , _[would n ot have been at all surprised if the chair r sat in had been an electric one, and I was not so sure that I'd care very much if it was!
When I had said my catechi sm ever so meekly, feeling a ll the while a s th ough no one was ever quite so wicked as l wa s, or quite so virtuous as my accusers, I retired while they discu ss ed my sins, and decided whether they were worth one o r two week end s on campus. After
which I was called back and having been properly impressed with the seriousness of my offense, I was told that after due deliberation ( indeed it seemed to me that they had deliberated nearly all night) the council had decided to give me two weeks. Then I returned to the only friend I have in the world-my bed, and vainly endeavored to keep one side of my pillow dry enough to sleep on. The next morning I pin a sign on my door . "For Sale Cheap-One Black and Gold Blouse." I part my hair in the middle, and put on, at least figuratively speaking, sackcloth and ashes.
l\rflection~
W. 0. CARVER, '23
When you're sitting in the evening
Just as lonely as can be
A-thinking 'bout the little girl
You wish that you could see; And you're feeling kinda blue and sad, A dreaming what you might have had, With no one at the close of day
To cheer you up and make yoi, gay But just the moon so far away, I'll say it's tough.
But when you stop and think a bit You guess you'll make the best of it, And go right on from day to day To live and fight as best you may And try to hope and pray and plan, And be, in spite of luck, a man; And always try ahead to gaze
And know that there are brighter days,T he sun won't always hide it's raysI guess I can!
t~it, WbeJLittlem;bingti
VIRGINIA RICHARDSON, '22 ·
Once, just once, I held a blue bird in my hand . Even now I feel the pitifully trembling body. I see his gorgeous colors caught from the sky as he Bittered thru, a soft brown breast, and the frightened jet eyes. As the tiny wings struggled in my closed hand and the sharp little claws scratched at my palm, in answer to the call that came from one of his mates fluttering nearby, he uttered a startled chirp. He pecked my hand, and struggled again to free himself, his body quivering; so I lightly kissed the velvet head, opened my hand, and let him go away into the trees with a dart and a flash of blue. How like my little bird are the joys of our lives: One moment they are with us; then they are gone. These fleeting bits of happiness enrich the lives of each of us. We snatch them as they flit by, and, after a short space of time, let them go, only to be caught by someone else who has been waiting. So the joy that comes to us, however small it may be, goes on and on, from one person to another.
Have you realized, however that it is not the little things we are alway s \van ting? We search for the big opportunities and great accomplishments to fill us with gladness, and are grieved when we do not find them. In our search, we lose sight of the small opportunities and simple deeds. Have you not thought how wonder£ul it would be to thrill an audience as Galli-Curci or Caruso have done? lt is thus in all we do. Our greatest influence comes not in moving- ctn assembly with a masterpiece, but in cheering one lonesome soul with a simple happy song. \Ve are so busy thinking about the
great success we eagerly desire that we overlook the fact that this reward does not come until perfection has been reached after the small attempts are accomplished. One may receive the acclamations of a world of eminent critics, but the truly great is happiest if he may bring a smile to a wrinkled, careworn face.
There is still another thing we do: we want to keep our joy entirely for ourselves. Oh, it is hard to let it go - that secret happiness of ours; we have probably long to obtain it; perhaps we know, as I knew when I held my little blue bird, that it is the first and last time such a bit of cheer£ ulness will come into our lives. We feel we must hold it fast. Before you crush it in your grasp by holding it too closely, remember that even after the bird is gone, you can still see him Bittering here and there in his freedom; you can hear his happy song, and see his gorgeous beauty. He is not gone forever; he comes and goes. With each return, he brings new life and gladness to you, and, best of all, to others.
So may we, by a tiny act or deed of kindness, renew some hope, bring a smile, or cheer one lonely heart. One thing, no matter how great it is, can not fill our whole life. It is the things happening to us every day, as little by little our lives grow, as our souls develop, that are reflected in our influences.
@n Wearingltnpleasant~arments
A. B. C., '23
Garments are unpleasant in three ways; first, when they are unnecessary, second, when the annoyance is peculiar to a certain garment, and third, when the habiliment is out of style. Adam was the only man who was never bothered with my subject. But who wants to be Adam? We would rather be able to choose our wives than enjoy the absence of the above mentioned trouble! The ancients experienced about the same inconvenience in clothes as we do. How do you know that Demosthenes' sandals were not too tight or that Cicero's toga was not a very inconvenient garment when the orator began gesticulating wildly at his friend across the Senate! Imagine the inconvenience experienced by Sir Walter Raleigh when he attempted to look out of a coach window or by one of the gentlemen of Thackeray's time when he suddenly stooped to pick a pin from the floor! All ages have had to wear unpleasant garments so we may as well resign ourselves to our lot without complaining. It is my intention to point out some unpleasant garments, not in a complaining manner but so you may know at which to complain and at which not.
Although we can not remember our impressions of clothes ( or anything else) when we were babies, nevertheless the baby must be very uncomfortable in some regalia. Imagine having your head-not only the top of it but also your ears-being tied up in a cap like they put on the baby! No wonder the youngster takes such an aversion to hats ;-he would much rather have something put in his mouth than on his head! Try and see! And Oh! the humiliation and embarrassment when
you wore a big collar ( sometimes trimed in lace), the kind that assumed a horizontal position when you ran and was the object of jokes and criticism from your playmates. That custom seems to have died out or mothers are getting more human to their "sonny boys". And then do you not remember the time you ref used to wear socks, "that didn't anybody but girls wear" and how when you were forced to wear them, imagined every boy looking at you and laughing. Your legs felt twice as long as they really were and everybody knew you were too big to wear socks! But those little troubles are all gone and you worry over new ones. VVhen your shoes are so decidedly "English" and your feet decidedly "African," when your desire is six and three-quarters and your head seven and a half, when your glove is a seven and your collar sixteen, you can imagine just what I mean. There is always some member of our anatomy which is always making garments unpleasant. But the malformations of our anatomies are not always responsible for inconveniences in clothes, for convention sometimes forces us into most unpleasant positions. What garment is more unpleasant than a coat on a hot summer afternoon, when you would rather be enjoying some cool swimming hole, you must sit on the porch, help entertain "company" and be uncomfortable. Why can not men be as comfortable in summer as women?
Some of ·us are more susceptical to style fluctuations than others but we are young, more or less unsettled in our ta s tes and naturally follow the crowd. If your bowtie does not approach zero as a limit you are not in style, if your forehead is high then there is no use to attempt to wear a hat in style, stick to the old style, broadbrimmed high-crowned head covering and be miserable! And how ~retched you feel when fashion calls for the
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low collar and your "Adam's Apple" has attained such prominence in the attenuation of your neck that you look rediculous.
We look 'with anticipation ,to some day when a genius will write a psychology of clothes and explain all these matters which have puzzled the human race since the first tack appeared in man's shoes and garments became generally unpleasant!
@n ~ommuning~itb Jlatnrt
LESLIE SESSONS, '22
It was during my freshman year at college that I learned that anyone who would amount to hnything must commune with nature. Had not all the great men and women we read about communed with nature? Did not all my teachers urge it, speaking vaguely of the wondlerful things that came to one when alone with nature? It was, then, clearly the thing to do; and I resolved to go through this wonderful experience at the earliest opportunity. I felt ashamed-nay more-I felt positively guilty of the greatest possible sin of omission, when obliged to confess that I had never fled from the sordid world and solaced my weary soul among the hills and trees and babbling brooks. This was the skeleton in my closet. It was true that I had often walked in the fields and woods, but it was always with others; and if I had been aware of "nature" at all, it was merely to be glad that the sun was shining and that it was a warm day; I have never pressed my ear to Mother Earth, and heard her heart throb !
It was one of those brisk fall mornings that made you happy to be alive, and which inspire you to adventurous undertakings, that was the accession of my first attempt at communion with nature. The trees were golden with a sprinkling of red and brown, and in the gentle breeze the leaves glittered like myriads of gold pieces. While waiting for my Latin teacher I glanced out of the class-room window, and was suddenly seized with a wild longing to forget Horace and his sublime form, and lose myself in the heart of nature. At last J had felt the call! The hills beckoned and I must re -
spond. I felt sure that an hour in the woods would do my soul much more good than an hour with Horace; moreover, it was my Latin teacher herself who had so strongly recommended communion with nature, and so blithely cutting my class, I slipped away to the particular hill which had lured me. Finding a cosy little nook overgrown with green vines, I seated myself comfortably and gave myself up to meditation. I listened to the sighing of the trees and the rippling of the little stream; I watched the sunlight dance in and out among the leaves, and fancied I caught glimses of the fairy wood nymphs. I realized that I was really living for the first time, and I felt that I could never again be the same person. I might return to the commonplace world of people in body , but my spirit would linger among the hills. It was in this exalted frame of mind that I reluctantly started my body homeward. Before I realized what was happening I had bumped into someone, murmured "excuse me," and started on, endeavoring not to let this little incident interfere with my thoughts. I was r u de 1y brought to earth, however, by hearing my esteened teacher of Latin remark, "You seem greatly pre-occupied. Where were you during class time this morning?" I hastened to relate my exeprience, certain of sympathetic ear. The ear was sympathetic, but the teacher instinct was not. "Why, certainly, that was very nice. I feel it incumbent upon me, however, to give you zero, and to have you write out and hand in all of to-day's lessons." Somewhat shocked by this attitude, and pondering the inconsistencies of human nature, I went slowly on my way, struggling desperately to regain my former state of exaltation. I soon became aware of an itching and burning of my face, hands, and arms, and as it rapidly grew worse I hastened to the nurse, fearful of smallpox. "Oh, no, is is nothing" she assured me,
''but poison ivy", and will not hurt you at all, though of course it will be extremely irritating. The cool, tempting green vines in which I had reposed during my seance with nature were poison ivy. Alas for my uplifted soul I It is hard-more-it is impossible to have one's thoughts among the clouds with the conciousness of a Latin lesson to be translated, and with one's face burning and itching. I forgot the beauties of the morning; I no longer cared for the golden trees or enticing breeze; I was conquered by the petty worries of the world.
After one or two more such experiences, ( my attempts at communion with nature have always had disillusioning endings), I have given up the struggle. I have left the solitary pursuit of the spirit of nature to poets and philosophers, and have resigned myself to an ordinary life in the everyday world, with only such supreme moments as can be derived from association with others. I have the greatest admiration for those who desire real benefits from their solitary musings, but such things are not for me.
RICHARD CHANNING \V ALDEN
Among those whom we feel it a privilege to honor in this department of the "Messenger" the n a m e o f Richard Channing Walden stands out pre-eminently. In the beginning, I would say, that it is more or less difficult to refrain from breaking down the walls of reserve and with the same familiarity exemplified on the campus, yes, it is very difficult to keep from referring to this gentleman as "Dick". I dare say he would feel more at ease, so to speak, if, when he reads this article, he could find the only name by which he is known on the campus in every line, but the dignity of the purpose I have in mind as I write these lines demand that I refer to him as Mr. Walden.
It was in 1918 that Mr. Walden entered Richmond College of the University of Richmond. He came to us from John Marshall High School from which school he graduated with honors in the spring of '18. At this time this school stood at the top of the list of public free schools in the state.
With this background and foundation, Mr. Wal den, has marched forward during his college career and when he passes from the walls of this institution in June he will have left an indelible impression on all those with whom he has come in contact and the University of Richmond will have profited by his having been here. It is impossible to enumerate all that Mr. Walden has done since he entered college and yet this article will not be complete with out the mention of a few of them. He is a memeber of the Phi Kappa Sigma and the Omicron
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Delta Kappa fraternities. He is also a member of the .Glee Club, Cotillion Club, John Marshall Club, College Quartette, and also president of ·the Varsity Club. He was president of the Junior Class and Historian o f the Sophomore Class. As an athle te h e is not lacking. He made the class Ba sk et B all Team, the Track Squad in 1920 and Varsity Baseball. No thing is t oo difficult for him to undertake for Old Red and Blue.
We congratulate Mr. Walden on being a Sen ior . We shall rejoice with him when he recieves his deg r ee, but with our congratulations and rejoicing we inv ite him to return next year, so that in 1923 we can congr atu late him for having received a M. A. degree from The University of Richmond.
J. H. M.
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