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 conjuntion 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.
Invites you to inspect our line of
We specialize on Theological Publications, and our many years of experience in this line, coupled with the most complete stock in the South , offer to you an unusual opportunity to select just the books which you want. Come and Give Us a Chance to Serve You
<!ebitorial
Just what is the Writers' Club? What is its relation to The Messenger, If any?
There seems to be con£us ion on the part of some of the students and an erroneous conT he Writers' Club ception on the part of others, conand cerning the aims and purpose of the The Messenger Writers' Club. It was stated most emphatically and wrongly in an issue of the Collegian that the Writers' Club was a branch of The Messenger. It is heard on all sides from members of both colleges that it was originated and exists solely as an integral part of The Messenger. This is not true . The Writers' Club is a distinct and separate unit upon the campus and is not connected with the Messenger. They stand separately and alone. If there were no Club there would still be a Magazine-; if there were no Magazine, there would still be a Club.
The constitution of the Club clearly states its purpose: "The object of this organization shall be to bring together those who have shown ability along literary lines and to stimulate interest in writing." There is absolutely no mention of The Messenger in this clear and concise definition of the Club's aim.
It must follow from this that the Writers' Club is not the source of the Messenger material. Our material comes from the entire student body. This point we can not make too emphatic, for this wrong conception of the connection between these two organizations has deprived the Magazine of much-needed contributions. The secret of this is that the members of the Writers' Club, whose work is handed to the two editors-in-chief of The
Messenger, have furnished a large quota of material used.
We do not believe, however, that the entire literary talent of the University is in the Writers' Club. Therefore we, the editors of the Messenger, ask contributions from the entire student body.
We need your contributions. We can not depend upon ourselves. We do not wish to use the work of the Writers' Club exclusively. We turn to you, the student body, and ask you to contribute.
The Writers' Club is not an exclusive organization originated and operated by the upperclassmen. It is open to any member of the University. The constitution
Membership In The Writers' Club states that the aim "shall be to bring together those who have shown ability along literary lines," these not being restricted to any class or classes, but including every member of the student body. The maximum membership is twenty, ten from Richmond College and ten from vVesthampton College.
What are the requirements for membership? There shall be two articles submitted to the club, through one of the members. One, at least, of these articles shall have been published in the Messenger. Each member of the Club reads and judges the material, and the Club as a whole, votes upon the proposed name.
The members of the organization are not ogres, not stern, stony-hearted judges, they are fai 'r-minded members of your own student body, and to those of you who have
any literary aspirations, whether Freshmen, Sophomores, juniors, or Seniors, they give an invitation to submit your articles to a member. Your name will be proposed and voted upon and very probably accepted. * * * * *
The Messenger, coming out as it does nearer the end of the month than the beginning, is a bit behind in this jolly old custom. ( Some even call it trite.) Your
A
Belated Happy New Year magazine might give quite a lecture on good resolutions, etc., but it refrains, (it is not a great temptation!) and merely says quite informally in the words of an old black mammy, "Rez'lutions is a'right ef yuh keep 'em, but de mos' kin' dar 'pears to be floatin' 'round is busted." But regardless of tardiness or triteness, The Messenger, along with its staff, wishes each and every one of you, its readers and friends, a 1922 filled with the best of everything, good luck, happiness, and satisfaction.
W. T. V ., '22
The heavens dyed her laughing eyes)
The sunset stained her hair) She frolicked with the bright sunbeams And caught them in their lair) She gathered in her childish heart The rays of purest gold And threw them back with care-free smile Into my very soul.
<!tonft~~ton of a 1Sobak,.1'itnb
GLADYS SHAW,
'22
The most interesting person I know to write about is myself, strange, too, since I an neither a Cleopatra, a Mrs. Pankhurst, or a Norma Talmage. I am an amateur photographer. Like most people wise and otherwise, I am proud of the virtures I can't help having. I could no more help loving a kodak than I could help having blue eyes and two red-headed uncles. I was born that way.
I've never examined my family tree very carefully, but I am almost certain that one of my ancestors was a daguerreotypist. When I was a very little girl I had two heroes, the "hoky-poky" man who pushed his little cart around the streets and sold you cones of pink and white ice cream for the lincoln pennies mother had given you for your mite box, and the ni.an with the box who went around taking "pictures" of family groups under their own vine and fig tree. The itinerant photographer knew me for a good customer. If I couldn't persuade the uncles, and aunts, and cousins to drape themselves gracefully on the front porch steps and be shot, I offered myself for the sacrifice. A picture had to be taken, it didn't matter whose. I wanted to see the little man disappear mysteriously under the black cloth, walk the camera forward on its three long legs, then wiggle out from under !he enveloping blackness and tell poor, dear, old Aunt Jenny to look at the little bird .
Grandmother's black alpaca skirt draped bver a chair back made an admirable camera for my purposes . Baby brother was my subject. How it must have bored him to have to pose so frequently and for such lengthy
settings! Nellie, . next door, wanted to be a milliner when she grew up, so she could have all the new hats she wanted. I decided that I wanted to be a lady photographer, ( photo-graffer I pronounced it), tall and 'dark, with pearly teeth and ruby lips-I almost wrote emerald eyes-.
When I was thirteen, somebody gave me a kodak, and "here endeth the first lesson."
There is no better traveling companion in the world than the little black leather case labelled kodak. I don't care how you go afoot, like those "maken pilgrymages," on a stallion black as night, as did the lords of olden days, or like unto a modern Launcelot, by steamship, snorting locomotive, motor car or air plane; I don't care where you go, Kalamazoo or Timbuctoo, travel with a kodak. You may not think it could be of much use on a flying locomotive. The endless line of telegraph poles that chase each other past the car window wouldn't make an extraordinary picture, to be sure, but the train stops sometimes. It may stop, as it has stopped for me in a quaint littl~ country village where life still lags on at a mid-victory pace. If your eyes are keen and you are not burried up to your ears in latest copy of C osmopolitan, or Snappy Stories, you can easily balance your little kodak on the window sill and get a snapshot that you may label 'fater, "Main ,:street looking' east." Change the focus and get a close up of the Warnermakers' of Beaver Dam or Coon's Creek Junction. There you may see displayed outside, the latest shade in georgette crepes, dishpans, fresh crisp cabbage, "le dernier cri" in Paris hats, the oldest inhabitant, a goodly number of the best minds in the country, and fresh fish. Pictures like that , are worth a hundred page dose of local color from the pen of some tedious Harold Bell Wright.
Speaking of things local reminds me of the time I took the "local" in a southern capital en route to the largest city. I pledge you my word, 0 ye of little faith, the seats were wooden benches, rescued from some abandoned meeting house probably. A stove that was old when Methuselah was in school stood in one corner, and overhead hung two oil lamps, the Ark lights Noah used. This relic of former grandeur, crawled over the tracks stopping asthmatically at every little pig path along the way. Two stops gave me opportunities for splendid interiors with which to regale my luxurious northern friends. If, as some economists say, civilization ends where the double track ends, a good part of these United States of yours and mine is wilderness. Now I'm not a Socialist, or a Bolshevist, or any other kind of "ist", but if I were, I should want no better propaganda than that my kodak can furnish.
Wouldn't it have been wonderful if R. L. S. could have taken snap shots of his travels with a Donkey? My travels with a Ford were quite snappy because of a few film rolls, a folding autographic, and a couple of blow-outs. The proud owners of a Rolls-Royce may turn up his aristocratic nose at the common place, plodding little machine, but I'd like to see him drive his imported touring car over the roads of western North Carolina, mere paths through the pine woods, some of them , roads with ruts and gullies cut by the wheels of lumbering ox-carts. All this discussion of cars and roads way be off the subject, but it explains the nature of some of the pictures I brought home from the trip, a glimpse of a swirling river, a sun-flecked forest 1glad,e, groups of people, simple country folk enjoying a holiday, the mill of the weeping willows. Once we ran upon a negro baptizing, an old time Southern affair where the "niggers
had done got 'ligion," and were shouting the fact to the world. I was on the opposite side of the river from the group. The preacher and the five women to be baptized waded out in the water towards me. By hanging myself, head down-wards, from a tree limb projecting precariously over the river bank, I was able to get three shots, one just as the fat old mammy in the red sunbonnet was going under. I lost my balance once and wet my skirts as a consequence; the camera wasn't exactly level, so the water runs up hill and the people are slightly lop-sided, but I got three pictures, and three good ones. And, after all, if Shakespeare will pardon, the picture's the thingfor me.
If I hadn't had pictorial proof of my adventure, my dear friends would have pooh-poohed the idea of a real ante-bellum baptizing. I think it would be a good idea for confirmed anglers to carry a kodak along when they go fishing and snap pictures of the monstrosities they wrest from the water. Then perhaps, people would be more inclined to believe their fish stories. But-one doesn't have to go vagabonding in another state to use a camera. There's no place like home, you know. It seems to me that I remember advising the uninitiated to travel with a kodak. Now I would go further, and say, live with a kodak. A snap shot diary is the most fascinating kind in the world, the story of one's life in pictures. Carnegie and Rocke£ ellow between them couldn't get together enough money to buy my kodak album. A cheap enough looking little book, rather dilapidated and worn, yet for me, it contains priceless treasures. There are pictures of my high school days when I wasn't too old to wear my hair in curls and giggle in History class There are four whole pages of faculty pictures, see, there in the right hand corner, is the History teacher we ,ajl adored-because .he was a comfirmed
woman hater with greying hair, and the air of a Spanish grandee. There's the funny nervous little Latin teacher who taught me virgil and bluffing. Down here is the head of the English department, the inevitable Miss U. U. who put the finishing touches to our English education. Salute her! That one? Oh! that's the French professor. Isn't he just too cunning for words? After high school come vacation pictures, picnics, Sunday afternoon strolls, cousins and friends. Over here I begin my college career. Here's the lake. There's the Dormitory, Chapel, the Library. Yes, those are flash lights taken in our rooms. . Don't you wish you had some of the fudge we are making? Here I am, but you'd never recognize me, now would you? That was taken when I was in the French play. That fairy and elf are relics of the May-day festival. Here comes the acedemic procession, grave and dignified Seniors in cap and gown. ·
The taking of pictures is a pure joy to me. Just to know that I, myself, can make a picture! I have somewhat the same feeling to my kodak that a violinist has to his violin. It is mine own, a part of me, a delicate instrument attuned to the touch of my fingers. It may be imagination, but I believe I can take a better picture with my instrument than you or anybody else. And, selfish prig that I am, I had almost as soon lend my toothbrush as my kodak. I have borrowed other peoples in cases of necessity, but of course that is different. I know how to use one.
Every body who is a successful amateur photographer must have a sixth sense, the photographic sense. I believe I have it. In all modesty I say it. A newspaper reporter has a nose for news. He puts his journalistic nose to the ground and trails the "dope". I can scent a picture. My sixth sense leads me to ideal places. My
instinct arranges artistic backgrounds and lighting effects. I simply revel in juggling lights and shadows. Anybody can take a plain ordinary snap shot. Almost anyone can learn to focus properly and time correctly. That is mere technique. But it takes an artist with the photographic sense to emphasize the high lights, deepen the shadows and make the picture alive.
I can not bear to see a film spoiled. It hurts me in some queer sort of fashion. If I ruined the negative, it is doubly tragic. I have seen a person carry a delicate vase in such a careless manner it seemed a miracle it wasn't smashed to atoms. How I longed to take it away from him. If I could only have gotten my hands on it, it would have been perfectly safe. I feel just that way when I see a person fumbling uncertainly with a kodak. I want to take it away from him, adjust it with my own deft fingers, and do the job for him. I almost did that once and to an utterly strange man. He had a marvelous instrument with a new high-powered lens made for real art, yet a hippopotamus would have managed it with more dexterity and grace than he did. If it hadn't been for my dear, devoted family, the awakened gentleman would have had a chance to thank me-or have me arrested.
Here I stand self-convicted. You know the depths to which I have sunk. My fingers fairly itch for the touch of the smooth black leather and polished metal. I make daily sacrifices in order to keep my: 'Voluntary servitude to the little god of the clicking shutter. What is this strange, compelling lure? It is the passion of creation, of the creation of beauty. If I can catch and crystalize the beauty of nature, if I can preserve the blossoming freshness of the rarest day in June, if I can record the thrill of an epic making moment, surely, I shall not have .served in vain.
~bt ~ottrp of J!.ift
LOUISE WILKINSON, '24
When I speak of poetry, I do not mean necessarily that form of expression which Webster designates as "metrical composition." Poetry is too elusive and vibrant a thing to be confined to a mere matter of words and form. It is a potent, an all-pervading force, an exalting influence, which lifts us out of ourselves and opens our eyes to all the beauty and wonder of life. Alfred de Musset caught, I think, the true meaning of poetry.
"Aimer le vrai, le beau, chercher leur harmonie,-" Whatever brings us into contact with this spirit of truth and beauty, whatever enobles and uplifts, whatever, as Dean Briggs says, "rolls the mist away from the mountain peak," is a part of the poetry life. To say that all poetry is "metrical composition" is as absurd as to say metrical composition is poetry.
Only think of all the poetry that never finds tangible expression-the dreams, the thoughts, the fancies, that flirt beyond our reach like gaily-colored butterflies, from whose wings the gold is brushed if we attempt to hold them. How I pity those who consider dreams idle and fancies vain, who persist in making thought only a mechanism of premises and conclusions! Such cold logicians can never know the supreme ecstasy of soaring higher and higher upon the wings of fancy, until the soul seems to lose itself in the infinite, to catch a brief glimpse of eternity itself. Life is then seen for an instant as from a mountain top, the petty things all blotted out, the truly great things standing in bold relief. From such a reverie one returns to the every-day tasks refreshed in spirit, with something new to strive for, something
greater to attain. I do not wonder that dreamless folk become cynics and pessimists. What have they to strive for or attain?
Their lack of idealism, moreover, hinders their complete enjoyment of another inexhaustible source of inspiration-art. Literature, painting, music, sculpture are b u t the embodiment of someone's dreams. Thank Heaven that there are those who can catch those elusive butterfly thoughts without brushing the gold from their wings! Oh, the joy of finding in book, or picture, or "concord of sweet sounds" a heart that beats in tune with one's own! There is nothing else, I think, that gives one such a feeling of the brotherhood of mankind as the discovery of such a kindred spirit, in a far distant land, perhaps, and a far distant time.
Dreams and art contain much of the poetry of life, but there is a source of inspiration greater than eitherN ature. In hills and woods and wind -tossed sea, we behold · the works of God's own hands without the inter£erence of man. As we stand entranced by the flood of melody that pours from the throat of an unseen feathered songster, or wonder at the perfect beauty of a tiny flower, emotions are stirred deep down in the hearts of us that somehow make us long for better and higher things. No one who has responded to the joy in the air of springtime, who has raced with the autumn wind, or has lost himself for a moment in the great out-of-doors and become just one of God's creatures, can ever be the same again. Depths have been opened in his soul that may be veiled for awhile in the whirl of modern life, but can never be closed. He will ever be born anew at the sight of the first violet, and the loveliness of a bit of sunset sky will bring a happiness so poignant that it is akin to pam.
Life is not all poetry. We could not, I think, enjoy so deeply its snatches of song were it not for the prosaic stretches that come between. There is much in the world that tends, indeed, to destroy poetry altogether. It is hard sometimes, in the smoke and dust of a teeming city street, to remember that there is a blue sky beyond the smoke. In the round of small duties and small cares it is easy to forget the greater things. Our bodies are of ten such a hindrance to our souls ! If we would be true poets, and all of us may, we must develop a clear mental vision and keep the heart of a child-vision to look beyond trivialities to that which is eternal, and a heart that sees joy in all things bright and beautiful, however, small, that finds the world an ever new and wonderful place. Only this can we experience the deepest joys of life, those joys that come from; "The faith that our ills are but the husk, with the kernel of life below."
~bt ~rain ~a~~tll Ji!'
J. HILLIS MILLER, '24
'Twas out on a lonely hilb
As the train sped swiftly by, I saw the light. The stars were shining brightly, And the moon with radiance beamed, For it was night.
'Twas a cold December night, When on that lonely hill
My thoughts did roam. The train sped on, my thoughts did not; No one could bring them back- . I'd seen a home.
'Twas a lonely cottage to be sure, With humble folks within; It served the same.
And though miles of rugged distance Rolled away into space, My thoughts ne'er came.
Home, home it means so much, God, friends, and then comes home, It seems to me. It may not be a palace fine, With wealth and pomp galoreThus I see.
Though some must stay and build a home, And feel the touch of children,s hands, I cannot stay.
But when my traveling days are o,er, Tll have a home to call my own, Some sweet day.
Tll take with me the one I love, Out where the west begins! know its right. And in that home on some green hill, Tll have a great big light, Most every night.
<ftut~tionof 1!\tbt
A. B. CLARKE, '23
The chill October twilight had settled on the country-side with that suddenness apparent in the approach of autumn nights and the invigorating tang of the frosty air, which leaked in through the great windows of the library, or came with a gust at the entrance of some member of the houshold, caused the old doctor to settle a little deeper in his luxurious leather rocker and then to rise absently and stir the fire.
The library was the doctor's favorite room. Not altogether because of the many volumes that lined its walls, although he had read and reread them with a regularity which proclaimed him a devotee of all kinds of obscure knowledge, and with the result that he had acquired a remarkable amount of information, but because here he was accustomed to sit and ponder : a place away from the world, in short a place where he could think. So often had he resorted to the great leather rocker that he felt it to be an animate being, a companion in whose company he mused on many a subject beyond the appreciation of most men. For the doctor, the library had taken on an atmosphere of informal, persuasive, almost hypnotic influence. It transported him, it stimulated his brain in solving harrowing problems, it soothed him, it burried him temporarily. And it is not surprising that one would have said that there existed a likeness in this room of books to the old doctor, himself, just as certain clothes seem to become as much a part of some people as their speech or manner. To complete that wonderful appeal of the room there was a
spacious fireplace where great logs cracked and blazed and where the oozing sap, sizzling with the heat, bubbled and foamed in the ridges of the bark.
There is a coziness and satisfaction in an autumn log fire like no other, and who denies the persuasion of the curling, crackling flame to dreams, to retrospection, to pondering the little drama of one's life in terms of the fairy book or merely recasting the incidents of pain and pleasure into flame pictures at which we smile with the advantage of age and experience. The fire-place is a history, a raconteur of old tales and the mystic revealer of youth. It is the harbor of the aged, when expectations have been realized, when failures have been encountered, in short, when a life has been lived.
The old doctor sat before his great log fire, his white head bowed, his eyes gazing inadvertantly into the ashes, nodding his head ocasionally as if in recognition of some thought which crossed his mind. He was old, yes, old even in his own conception of age, for the eighty years which had passed were filled with many unusual experiences, now vague, and yet such that he felt a responsibility arising from the weight of more than the average knowledge of a lifetime. Often had he mused thus, but invariably wondering at the strange circumstances under which one incident had happened and pondering even more deeply the outcome.
The early spring had found New York responsive to its freshness and rejuvenescence but that April morning the balmy air was especially invigorating. The young intern of the W estview Hospital entered the free ward to hear the usual greetings from patients for whom he had done just a little more than was perhaps necessary and who in turn, thought him the pleasantest, most
agreeable doctor they had ever seen. He walked among the beds, pausing occasionally to make some familiar remark to one patient or joking with another in the most carefree manner. Almost every face in the room was turned toward him and to have seen the smiles would have made one otherwise forget that the place was a hospital free ward!
"Doctor Allen!" called a voice with a foreign accent. The doctor paused and turned to a bed where lay, to all outward appearances, a young Italian whose bandaged head and arm proclaimed him a victim of street accident, probably.
"Doctor come-a here!" he called shrilly.
"Yes, what is it?"
"I have something :to tell-a you. You mind sit down? 'Right!"
The doctor drew a chair from the wall, placed it near the bed and sat down. The Italian youth thrust a nervous hand through his black curly hair and lowered his voice almost to a whisper.
"Doctor, they tell-a me, I get well soon, and then go 'way?" The manner of the youth somewhat puzzled the doctor, but he knew the seriousness with which some foreigners speak concerning trivial things.
"Yes Tony, you are doing splendidly. Just a few more days and then you'll be well enough to go home," the doctor answered pleasantly.
"I know, but-but, I have something to tell-a you. Maybe I not see-a you again, eh? You been good to me -better dan other men in America. You fix-a da broke arm and head, you not talk rough to me ! I like to give-a you something. I have hard time to make-a da live. America not rich like I think when I come-a here. People no treat-a me right. Take-a ma money, robba me,
steal what dey take-a from me. 'Right? Eh? Man say he killa me when he find-a me, but I try never to see heem again." He mumbled something excitedly in his own language and stopped for breath. There was an expression of intense effort on his face.
"What are you driving at? What is the matter?" The doctor spoke almost disinterestingly. The cause was not unusual; even in his limited experience Allen had met those patients who think a doctor their confidant, to whom they, Ancient Mariner-like, must unburden themselves of tales of misery and woe.
"I have-a no people. S'pose-a da man he kill-a me. Nobody know me. You doctor, you take-a me?" The Youth looked up appealingly.
"You mean you want me to claim your body if you should suddenly die or be killed?"
"Yes!" answered the man as if pleased to have made himself understood so quickly. I have nothing to givea you, but I hear medical college cut-a up da body of dead people. You take-a me dere if you like to ! Keep-a one bone to not forget me, eh? I like-a you to keep-a da bone. I got nothing to give-a you else. You see? The appealing, dog-like expression in the man's eyes caused the doctor to look at him quizzically.
"What!" he said distinctly, "You offer your boby to be dissected if you are killed! Why, old fellow, that isn't at all necessary. I can see that you are buried, all right. Don't worry any more about that. Understand?"
"No! No! No! You tak-a me to da college but-" and laying emphasis on every word-"you keep-a da bone!))
A strange request indeed, but after a moment's hesitation Allen decided it was best to humor the fellow,
agree to anything which was of no vital importance and trust to the youth's forgetting the apparently absurd request. Youth fancies queer things and the almost violent gratitude of this seemingly unhappy, disillusioned man was little more than the exaggerated proposal of an imaginative child. Allen smiled at this bit of simple puerility and ingenuousness and agreed to the request.
"Very well," he answered quietly.
"Den you write on da paper <lat dey tell-a you if I die? Eh?" Thelfe sounded a - ,tone of relief ·and satisfaction in the foreigner's voice.
Still believing that the young Italian would forget the whole affair and probably lose such a message, the doctor took one of his cards from its case and wrote above his name :
"In case of death or accident, notify-"
Handing the card to the now smiling Italian, Allen rose from his chair, said something more to the youth concerning his condition in view of leaving the hospital and then went out of the room.
The Italian was dismissed, little the worse for his battered arm and head, and, as is the case with most ' charity patients of a big hospital, disappeared from the sight of knowledge of all those connected with the hospital. Allen had encountered strange experiences in the short time since his graduation but the request of the Italian youth continued to puzzle him for many months. However, with the passing of time and the many cases which came to his notice, the incident involving the Italian had become scarcely a memory, so trivial, so absurdly ridiculous had the possibility of any outcome appeared.
Years passed and Allen became a surgeon of great fame and : wealth. Not only his technical knowledge
but an innate ability to use that knowledge and an urbane, affable manner in dealing with others were responsible for his success. The years had brought comfort and satisfaction in a wife and three children and the knowledge of peace of work well done perhaps gave him an even larger share of happiness. At least, such Allen thought.
One night, fifteen years from the time when he had served as intern at the W estview Hospital, Allen was in a New York hotel attending a conference of medical men. He intended to return home ( for he did not live in NewYork) the next morning. Feeling a need for rest preparatory to the trip, he retired early.
It seemed he had just fallen asleep when he was awakened. The room was totally dark, so he knew it was not time to get up; the hum of the great city beneath him occasionally silenced by the roar of the elevated railway apprized him of his whereabouts and yet he felt that vague, innate impression and premonition of danger, of another's presence, that instinctive feeling of something being wrong. Allen was not a nervous or excitable man; he knew the dangers sometimes accompanying hotels and although his profession had prevented extensive travel, a fair amount of experience with strange places had made him somewhat careful. He drew a small revolver from the pillow of his bed and lay still. There was no sound in the room save the monotonous ticking of his watch the self-luminous face of which he could see glowing on the table several feet opposite him. The hands marked the hour of 2 A. M. Suddenly, as Allen looked, the glowing dial of the watch disappeared and then reappeared as quickly as if a hand had been passed before it. His premonition was confirmed! Still there was silence, the heavy oppressive
silence of anticipation, and Allen, breathing heavily in order to feign sleep, waited expectantly, still trying to see into the darkness. The anticipation produced an almost hypnotic attentiveness to something intuitively sensed and Allen felt that he must call out or make some other noise to stop that faint whirring sound in his ears. He felt as if deaf. The silence was awful; it began to terrify him; he ceased breathing heavily; perspiration gathered on his forehead. The thing must stop; time had dragged interminably, the throbbing in his ears seemed to equal thunder and the steady ticking of the watch made him experience a drosy, semi-dormant sensation from which he mentally tore himself with quite an effort.
The watch had ticked off a few seconds when Allen 1ooked toward the floor and dimly saw the head and shoulders of a man crouching near the foot of his bed. Slowly the figure moved and without hesitation or forethought, Allen pressed the trigger of his revolver. Following the report of the gun which broke the silence like a crash of thunder, there was no sound like a cry or a moan ; and by the time Allen had reached for the reading light near his bed and turned it on, the figure had collapsed on the floor.
The noise of course woke the occupants of the nearer rooms and while Allen talked to the hotel clerk on the telephone, several guests made known their curiosity and excitement by talking loudly in the hall and finally by knocking on Allen's door. The police arrived and the usual investigations were begun. The dead man had undoubtedly intended robbery since a bill-fold, belonging to a guest of the hotel, was found in his pocket, and the automatic which was still held by the right hand assured Allen that he had been right in firing in the dark and
lighting the room afterwards. The man appeared to be middle aged, of foreign features and dressed very shabbily ;there was nothing distinctive about him perhaps save his black curly hair. He was merely a type apparently. The police were almost indifferent. One of them, in looking through the man's pockets which contained several scraps of paper and a torn newspaper clipping, found a small piece of very soiled cardboard on which was dimly discernable, through the dirt: "In case of death or accident, notify-Dr. Richard F. Allen."
The October wind had lulled; the fire burned low and as the flames which sprang up when the log crumbled and fell among the ashes, lighted the room for a few moments, the old doctor raised his head slowly and looked up at a human skull resting on the mantle shelf. The faint flickering light, poorly diffused through the room made the ghastly features even more hideous; yet even at that distance one could see a small round hole in the skull on the left side just above the ear cavity.
WARREN G. KEITH, '23
Youthful writers usually choose themes into which tragedy can be written. Young poets especially delight in dilating on subjects closely akin to the tragical. Remorse, meloncholia, lonesomeness. and other similar states of the mind are constantly discussed in meter. Now, while I do not at all understand the psychological causes of this tendency, I have some well grounded suspicions which experience and investigation have brought me. Tersely speaking, I believe that the sensations of the digestive organs are the greatest forces that impress these symbolic shadows on a youthful mind. The time-worn example baby will suffice to further elucidate my point. When the baby is hungry, it cries. When the baby is well fed, he coos; When the baby enters into that pathological condition known as colic, she wails and gasps. Later in life this same child will respond to these sensations with lyrics and odes couched in the same rhythm of baby-hood days. I have investigated my own diary and after meet consideration have determined that my appetite in all its fluctuations has been invariably the spirit that evoked the muse.
After eating a juicy T-Bone steak, smothered in onions and flavored with a judicious sprinkling of Tabasco sauce, the muse attacked me and I wrote:
To the Mexican Soldier Fallen at Agua Prieta, Here they fought, and here they fell On the plains of Agua Prieta. Their corpses all ghastly forsaken lie A midst the mesquite and stiletta,
Their skulls are homes of horny toads
The sombrero shelters the rattler; The wind fingers at their clothing frayed By screaming vultures from H ileta.
Thus I continued for forty lines, ( the remainder is omitted for the sake of brevity), in a stirring, martial fashion. Notice the effect of the sauce. Perhaps there were among those violent rebels of Villa men from Tabasco. The substance of that rare steak made me think of soldierly decorum. Meat always makes man ambitious. If that steak had been flavored with garlic I am sure that I would have grown Byronic and stood among the Greeks, or on the battlefields of some of those philogarbic nations bordering on the Mediterranean sea. Sitting in my room one night and busily occupied in that engaging study of sines and co-secants, I allowed the dinner hours to pass, consequently I had nothing to eat that night. Just in the art of retiring I turned off the light, and the gleam of the moon in all its splendor held with me an irresistable charm. I then broke forth in a lyric, part of which I here record:
ESPERANCE!
So gleams the moon to-night!
The beams! Oh , boon so bright
My heart allow!
In dreams, festoon of light, I make my vow.
The result of fancy affected by an empty stomach. Had I partaken of slum or some other delicacy, that poem of hope would never have been engendered. While I was "sojouring" in France my diary became my confident friend. One night I came in for duty feel-
ing that my rose colored shell house had been washed away by the tidal wave of Germanic caprice. I could not trust her. "My heart would not trust! Could not trust!" I find these words were written while I sat in Place de Palais waiting for a train to convey me to camp.
After I had devoured brussel-sprouts, artichokes and Roquefort cheese, with pineapple juice flavored with champagne, my whole mountain of distrust with all its labor brought forth only a mole hill.
TO GERMAINE
How true are your eyes, The words of your mouth?
Sweet messenger of truth, Ere this sweet moment. So had I not felt, Surely
From some deep sleep I steal by your side, And 'tis then My heart has learned Your sweet sincerity.
A friend and I were out hiking in Santa Cruz county Arizona. Our rations were short, not exactly a dearth, but merely hard tack, black coffee and a little bacon. See its effect.
CREATION
The bright hued pallette of the sun Adorns fhe evening sky, A flaming sheen of colors dart Toward night a crimson defy.
Anyone knows that the gorgeous sunsets of Arizona are without parallel, yet I found not their beauty in poetry until my stomach gave the word.
On board the rolling tossing steamship, Kia-Ora, bound for France my journal was the constant recipient of verse. A buddie and I had purloined from the officers' mess a hunk of cheese and about three pounds of plumpudding. Witness the effect of such a diet, together with the nauseating influence of a sea voyage.
NIGHT
Thy fame is built within my heart, Oh, spectre drear; There thou hast a part In sorrow and in fear. Stay within the vaulted dismal, Go not from thy grot abysmal, Darkest Night!
Thou wast with me from my birth, Oh, demon darkness, Stay within me, till back to earth In hideous starkness
Gropes my soul, starved and wasted, Wrecked and doomed with high hopes blasted, Damned Night!
Sweet Yvonne, I can never forget her. I was drawn to her by her youth, her soft, musical voice, her winning manner, her enticing disposition, and her regard for me. By deft movements I had gradually led her, an inexperienced one, into the realms of porphry and crimson of rameau and violet. At last I came to that state so-called by many as the love state. Though I deem it a land of Euphoria, something like the state of Andorra.
I once stood on its frontier. The guard would not permit me to pass.
The following lines came after a day of devotion to that feeling which existed between female Yvonne and male me.
BLOOM
Just at morning hour
When the etchings of the East
With the claret light glows; Wal king in the garden
Among the fancy flowers I stood to watch a rose.
Then followed other lines, showing how I watched the heart of Yvonne unfold to the grand passion of life. It closes:
Behold the green sepals part, Watch the petals unfold; Peeps into its tender heart
Look on the heart of gold.
What in nature more bright, Where in nature grandeur sight, Than the opening of a rose '!
Interest asserts itself when reading on in my diary I find:
"Out to Fondette all day. Yvonne surprised me** tea in Purple Lizard over at Luynes-went to walk down along Loire * * late to work-Bowles mad as a bull" Then came the lyric to "bloom."
To find the reason is simple. "Tea at Luyneswalk by Loire-late to work." Mess was finished at 5 :30. I was supposed to go on duty at 6 :00. Therefore
I had no supper. Time would not have permitted eating, for my diary records that immediately on coming to work.
I bathed four influenza patients. The stifling hot breath of a dying man could not seer my poetic spirit . Hunger and imagination are often yoke-fellows.
Enough of this vanity. Let me speak from observation of a young poet. During the holidays young Chisholm invited me to spend the afternoon at his home near the city. We had discussed the tariff question, had settled the Arms Comference, and finally began the discussion of poetry. Chisholm brought out a poem, which he admitted was born during the Christmas holidays. After examining the whole piece, I decided that he too was the victim of his digestive system.
The poem was a rollicking little lyric to some dead person, idea, or what-not. I caught its rhythm and remembered this stanza :
The scented perfumes all so sweet
Dallying on the gentle breeze, Are but the breath of her affection
Reaching, seeking out to please, Dwelling on the grave of Mavis!
Perfume and something dead! What had he been eating that would cause such a mixture? Later in the afternoon he led me to his room and after much shuffling of collars and kerchiefs from an old trunk he produced a vial of Vouvray-but a small quantity remained, enough for two glasses.
There in the glass before me was the cause of the poem. The exhiliarating effort of the bursting globules of mousseux, followed by the dreary cheerless feeling
which comes on after its spirit is spent, had produced the picture of bowers laden with flowers, and then the sad picture of a bier and tomb.
To remedy this disposition one can follow the Goddess of Beauty through Keats, Shelley, Browning, or any of that host and know that for the many are reserved the out-posts; while the few kneel at her throne and are knighted "poet."
When we act as sponsor for a bit of verse, christen it and send it forth into the world, we assume a serious responsibility. There is no kind of power to shape its silly symbols "roughen them how we may." Our brainchild thrown among the souls of poesic land comes back all sad and disillusioned, and why? It was fathered by a spirit emanating from a distressed stomach or a torpid liver, and not by the spirit of the beautiful and sublime. It could never hope to go to the heaven of poetry, because it posesses no soul.
Therefore look and learn and it were well to follow this role before writing poetry for public stare.
Am I bilious?
If so, why?
Is my diet too rich?
Am I hungry?
A good walk is the best antidote for attacks of the Muse, write poems on bark and place them upon the trees. I am reminded of an army command I have executed many times:
"Stick out your tongue. Give him a dose of Magnesium Sulphate and mark him duty.))
As to the soldier, so to the embryonic poet.
~nttctpatton
B. u. DAVENPORT, '22
I ts better to expect Than to get; And better to reflect Than to fret.
Its better to taste, Than to rest; The moment before A kiss is best.
A bubble blown Is a word of hope; A bubble burst Is greasy soap. When you aim Make it high. Yet,Don't for get ·That the best Is the zest Of your try.
Then go And Use Today: Tomorrow's empty And far away.
35>tage,.f'rigbt
VIRGINIA RICHARDSON,
'22
The night had come. Someone stuck a program at me, and I glanced down the list to see where my number came-fifth! "Not so bad," thought I, swallowing nervously. I had been swallowing nervously for two or three weeks, ever since I had been told that I was destined to furnish one of the vocal numbers for the usual monthly recital. Every time the fact was mentioned, my throat contracted, and from head to foot, a sort of weakness passed over me.
The last of the third number found me in the little ante-room just off the stage. I arrived in good time to see Number Three return, beaming with relief. My predecessor advanced toward the door, apparently calm, and with an air of assurance and dignity that, in my mind's eye, left me fading into an obscure corner. The agony of those few minutes was nothing. In vain did my instructor, with the most outlandish antics and distorted expressions, play upon an imaginary fiddle. Poor man, he thought he was diverting my mind from what was to come. But he knew me not! Once established, nothing could drive 'from my consciousness the fact that my turn was next. Having some respect for this disillusioned creature capering before me-I knew his attentions were sincerely for the best-I managed from time to time to spread my lips and show my teeth. It was intended for a grin, but I felt as if I had stuck my fingers in my mouth and stretched the corners. At intervals, through some miracle, a spirit of air would strike a vocal cord, and cause a hollow sound to be emitted from between my teeth.
Suddenly, the sound of applause burst through the crack in the door, and mechanically, I started. Have you seen Mrs. Jolly's Wax Works? I reminded myself of one of those wax puppets. The spring had been wound up, and, even before I was ready, some strange force impelled me toward the door. Automatically, my rigid left arm swung forward as my right foot was placed in front of the left in time to a rhythmic clickclack of my knees. Thus I advanced over that wide expanse toward a row of glaring footlights. I wondered if that spring within, or whatever it was that moved me, would bring me to a stop, or let me go on, on, on, over the sea of faces. First in one direction and then in another, my eyes whirled; I believe I finally shut them. Left, left-the click-clack ceased, and I opened my eyes. I was still behind the lights, but what was that before me! A mob of silent, slowly moving, heinous monsters floated there. A whirling motion started in my feet. Upward it worked, up, up, up. It sucked my breath away. It threatened to tear my wildly bounding heart from its insecure holdings. Still it rose in its mad swirling, pushing and pulling at the sides of my throar. At last, it reached my head. It roared, and thundered within the bony cavity; it pounded upon my ear drmns; it rushed around and around until my body swayed dizzily.
I perceived that a piano was playing a faP.,iliar melody. Violently gasping, I caught my breath before it le£t me forever. With this new lease on life. my head cleared somewhat, and the roaring ceased. I recalled that there were words to accompany the melody. Words? What words? Vainly, I scoured the convolutions of my brain. Words! How did they beginthis-one-the-? They had fled, where? Oh, I had it-where! A chord sounded; it was my cue. One,
two, three, I counted, and, on four, my jaws were forced apart, and a sound came forth. I sang. That is what they call it. What it really was, I have no idea. I was conscious of forming words to suit that melody, as they came to me. Convulsively, I caught more air, and choked upon it. At the pauses, my knees again took up their castanet-like tattoo. My heart wildly pounded my ribs, and my head surged deafeningly. Word followed word, and note followed note until I attained that final terrifying A. I literally snatched at it, and stood there, tense, clutching, holding it fast. Breath! Breath! I was panic-stricken. Breath! The more I summoned, the more I needed. Breath-ah, there was the chord which was the climax-less, less, less, down, down, down. My muscles relaxed, my voice ceased, and my mouth closed. Before me were the footlights, and, beyond them, a mass of clapping hands, and grinning faces. I spread my lips, showed my teeth, and jerked my head with a forward movement. Left, left, click-clack, click-clack-the door closed behind me.
UCrue~torp of a JltbJ~ Qtlipping
WILLIAM ELLYSON, '23
As one who is cognizant of all of the facts connected with a certain episode, which has received press notice, concerning one of my fellow students in the University, I am writing this tale in order that his reputation may be purged of the blot that is against it. This is not undertaken as a tirade against justice, which acted only according to the case as it could be interpreted at the time . It is, rather, only as I have said an effort, by one who knows the facts, to place the actions of a friend in a true light. The newspaper clipping which I have placed at the end of this report was taken from the Richmond Times Dispatch, dated November 13, 1921. It, or its substance, is probably well known to all in the University. The account preceding it will, it is hoped, place it in a different light.
The Star Spangle Banner rang out in the reverberating drill hall, and all did homage to the Flag. 'Twas with more of a ceremony tonight. The clicking of the military heels, the respectful statuary poses of the civilians and the rapt attention of the evening-clad women and girls seemed to be more than mere form or custom . All seemed to realize that tonight was Armistice night, and to recall the meaning of that November day three years ago when peace was once more to be found in the world.
This did not last long, however, for soon the usual gaiety found itself, and the crowded floor was filled with dancers. Richmond was giving its Armistice Day Ball. To the great drill pavillion in the Gray's Armory all of its citizens had been invited by the celebration committee.
The Governor and staff rubbed shoulders with the "Knight of the Taxicab;" Colonial Dames with "My Lady of Gloves" or "of notions". Democracy reigned.
Among a group of students from the University of Richmond was Ben Moore, athlete and all-around good fellow. He had wandered around with the "gang" practically all of the day. They had seen the parade in the morning and joined the merry crowd of frolickers in the afternoon. To him the day had been a festive one. The metropolitan crowds on the streets, with their antics and merry making, found him one of their kind. Painted girls were jocosely railled at by a medium built, nicelooking fell ow and they answered him similiarly. Loudvoiced pleasure-bent men bantered with Ben Moore, as one of the initiated, and found a type.
All this he had enjoyed. Probably the more so because this was so different from his home town, sleepy Hollow Oak. And he was so different too, from what he had once been, when Hollow Oak had claimed him as its own. No mean athletic ability, a jovial disposition, and a magnetic personality had helped to elevate him to an enviable position at the University. He was one of the elite.
Tonight no one would recognize in Ben Moore, as he danced in and out among the crowd, the same "Benny" Moore, the idol of Hollow Oak some four years ago. Life had been kind to him and he appreciated her kindness by a reciprocation to all. For this he was loved. There was nothing of the proud in him. Smiles of greeting were evinced at his breaking. The dance wore merrily on. The imported orchestra waxed eloquent with jazz and the hired songsters trilled popular airs of sentiment and wit.
However, men sometimes grow weary. Sometimes the sentimental lines of a song or air of a waltz breaks in on the festive making. The Song of India had such an effect on Ben Moore. It recalled to him the weariness and somehow left no taste for the spirited music that followed. He repaired to the long visitors' gallery; there to take stock of the throng and incidentally to rest.
"All by myself, I'm so lonely", sang a buxom "eastside" Jewess, painted and robed for the ocasion. The dancers listened light heartedly, if at all, to the plaintive cries of the bold looking Israelitess. Yet she continued to sing; for this she had been hired. Ben Moore listened amusedly thinking of the incongruity of the song and the singer. As if one in her role could have such feelings. Soon he mused on the subject-matter of the songs. Was he not lonely? No, he could not say that he was. But in his rambling thoughts it occurred to him that possibly those whom he had le£t in Hollow Oak might be. Wonder if his mother and father were ever lonely without him, he mused, as he recalled them. Yes, possibly they .were, and maybe he was lonely for them, when he stopped to think about it.
Forgotten was the merry throng of dancers, and even the singing woman. Ben Moore le£t them far behind, in his reveries. His mother! and how tired he was! If he was only at home now, she could talk to him, in her own way; and fix up his old room for him to sleep in. She would come and raise the window and tuck him in as in the olden days. Wouldn't it be wonderful to be at home once more?
On and on he mused, until Hollow Oak assumed Utopian qualities. The character and simple sincerity of the people were so different from all else that he met. Boyhood days and adolescent dreams loomed fresh in
his memory. He was in the little country town, and the hands of time were turned back ten years. The crack of bat against ball, and a dive into the cool waters of Harvey's Mill Pond were realities. Indeed all life was fair and rosy in those years in Hollow Oak.
The following is the clipping from the Richmond Times Dispatch dated November 13, 1921, which was mentioned in the introduction. Its connections are, I trust, easily discerned.
UNIVERSITY STUDENT FINED FOR DRUNKENNESS
Despite Plea of Sobriety, Fine Imposed By Court; Appeal.
Benjamin Moore, a young student of the University of Richmond, was fined twenty-five dollars and costs in police court yesterday morning for being drunk at the Grays Armory the night of the Armistice Day Ball. Despite his plea that he had not touched liquor on the previous night, circumstances pointed otherwise. He noted an appeal.
When making his rounds about two A. M. on the morning following the Ball, the night watchman came upon Moore in the visitors gallery in an unconscious condition. When he tried to awaken him he was greeted by caresses and words of affection, which are commonly the signs of a drunken stupor. "Don't hit me," were his next words .................................... .
en }Beingtbt ~nbitnct
JULIET WOODSON, '22
When I finish college, there's one subject in which I shall certainly be perfect. Years from now when I shall have forgotten that Chlamydomonas is-is-well, whatever it is-and when I shall probably be slightly confused as to whether Henry VIII was a confirmed bachelor or Queen Elizabeth had eight husbands, I shall glory in the knowledge that in one branch I have a firm foundation. I have mastered the art of being an audience-an audience of one!
There are, to be exact, three divisions of an audience -back row, middle row and front row. If your name is Abraham, or Adams, or Anderson, you belong in the place of honor; and if you are known as Xerxes, or Yurachek, or Woodson, you are assigned to the rear. The trials of the back row division are by no means light. Speak from sad experience. For I associate with the Xerxes family twelve hours a week. Theirs is the task of murmuring soft acquiescence in tones calculated to cheer on the impassioned professor. Theirs is the duty of nodding vigorous agreement to all rhetorical questions. And theirs, finally, is the obligation to peer anxiously over the shoulders of the middle rows with a hear-or-die expression. But in comparison with the agony of the Abraham Section, the sufferings of the last row are as nothing.
Back-seat murmurs in the process of progression become, of a necessity, decided responses. Peering forward can not be resorted to-there's no one over whom to peer. As for mere nodding-it simply isn't done! Like the pretty maid of nursery fame.
"My face is my fortune," the front row says. If the reign of terror is the subject of the history lesson, A row needs must make its hair stand on end ( a thing which, with long practice, is easily achieved by the simple method of running one's fingers through one's hair) and radiate morbid curiosity. If the class is told in physics that a thermometer is used to measure temperature difference, A row's expression must be one of astonished horror, and when the English professor declares that an essay touches the heart of all editors sooner than any other form of literature, Adams and Anderson and Abel must beam delighted joy. Thus at the end of a week, A row is a fit subject for St. Vitus Dance . I am speaking from experience for three hours a week-in Botany class I, myself occupied the front row, and it was there that my one fatal mistake occurred.
I suppose-I hope-that it was lack of practice that made me so slow-witted. As it is, the very memory of that day sends icy shivers up and down my spine.
"The fungi", a far away voice was droning, "have undoubtedly sprung from the algae by the loss of chlorophyd and chloroplasts." And while I jotted down the clever remark, I smiled my widest in the direction of the platform. It wasn't that I thought it was funny-oh,no ! I had simply run the gamut of my emotional expressions; smiling was all that was left to me! Suddenly I became conscious of a dreadful silence and then of a furiosity rising crescendo.
"Laughing? Are you laughing? You think it's funny, do you?" The angry voice shrieked louder and louder and louder and I-and I kept on smiling. My grin had frozen on my face! Had the horror of it lasted much longer, I should have been mentally ruined for life.
Quite naturally the little episode somewhat upset my self-confidence. But last Sunday as we came out of church, father said to me, "I have yet to see more curious facial contortions than yours this morning. You'd better see an oculist this week-it must be the result of nearsightedness."
Do you suppose that this rather-ah-crude-observation worried me? Far from it! For now I know that at last I'm master of the fine art of "Audiencing."
The petals of love are all faded, And the fresh leaves beginning to shed As the bloom once so perfume-laded Now drops its weary head.
Behold the once beautiful flower, So lately the essence of life; Which thrilled at the kisses of the zephyr, And engaged the bold north wind in strife-
N ow sullenly shaking and shiv'ring, And shrinking the wind 1 s caressThe petals are falling; and quiv 1 ring, It sinks down in barrenness.
"Oh Ye, who we once thought immortal, Thou fair love flower of youthOh tell us what made the sad ruinWe beg thee to tell us the trutht 1
From the faded and languishing blossom, We hear the low mournful reply, "0 h, a cut flower soon must sucumb, And a love that1s misplaced must soon die!"
J,otu
tbt ~rmp ~onberteb3'fake~mitfJ
C. N. SNEAD, '23
It was getting late. Ten of us were seated in a semicircle about the open fire of a private club room. Conversation had lagged and even Joe Roberts had talked out for once in his life. Before us lay dying erribers of what had been an hour before a cheerful blaze. Several smoked cigarettes, and the whole bunch seemed to be staring in a vacant kind of way into the flickering coals. Suddenly Norman Hagard flicked the ashes from his cigarette and said slowly; "Its a funny thing to me to see how differently different boys were affected by the world war." Quite perceptibly, Norman was thinking aloud, but whatever started him to thinking on such a subject at all was a puzzle to me, for the war had not been mentioned a single time that evening before, and what's more, only one man of the ten was an ex-service man. That was Jake Smith, and if there was any one thing in the world Jake did not do, that was to talk about the war.
For a few seconds no one spoke, but we all glanced at Norman, and then somebody said, "Well"?
"O, probably my way of looking at things" continued Norman as if he feared he had broached an unwelcomed subject, "but don't you remember that serious-minded, pious looking fellow down on Seventeenth street who used to be so preachy and religious? Used to teach Sunday School class every Sunday morning until the army came along and took him to France, and what happened? Well, somebody else teaches his class now, and the fellow can hardly be prevailed upon to go inside a church at all."
Now we could all follow Norman's line of thought pretty well, for the gentleman to whom he ref erred was a well known figure in our city, but as yet we could not see the point Norman was getting at, so the rest of us still didn't say anything but waited for more. A twinkle came into Norman's eye, and a smile ran over his face as he began again. "And there's old Jake over there; a regular devil before the war, but look at him now. A perfectly serious-minded, religiously inclined fellow; can you beat it?"
"Maybe Jack can explain the question," I said, and then someone else explained , 'By Jove, lets have Jake tell us more about his war experiences in France." "Fine" said another. "Nothing stale though Jake, lively you know; hair raising stuff. Come on old boy; lets have the tale of how Jake the Devil was changed to Jake the humble."
And that's how it started; that's how we came to know about Thompson as Jake called him, Jake said it did'nt matter what Thompson it was; that it was only the last name that counted in the army and that was the beginning of our better understanding of the new Jake who had come back to us from the battle fields. I can see him now as he sat before the club fire that night telling us his tale for the first time. There was no light burning; only the glowing coals before us. Outside it was cold and dark, even a little chill was beginning to creep over the darkened room due to the dwindling fire. In a general way, we all knew about Jake's service in the army. We knew what outfit he sailed and fought with; the different battles he was in, and in a vague way about the long hikes he must have gone through, but as to any of his more personal experiences, we had never before been able to get Jake to say much about. The most we
knew was that Jake was a changed man; a man it seemed who had aged ten years in his mental attitude, and whose spiritual life had undergone a complete transformation.
All of us looked at Jake and waited. He sat perfectly still with arms folded, his feet stretched out before him, and with his eyes fixed on the coals of fire with a distinct look that indicated to us that Jake was not seeing the coals at all, but something far, far away. For a few seconds he sat thus and then he began. "It was a pity about Thompson;" he said reminiscently, "He had such a wonder£ ul mother". No one spoke a word. We listened, and this is what Jake told us in his own words.
"About six months after I started training at Camp Lee, it became apparent that our outfit must sail within a short time, and we did not have the required quota of men. A bunch of recruits was brought in to make up for the dificiency, and mixed among the rest of us in such a way as to not interfere with our regular work. A fell ow named Thompson was assigned to my squad; a fine looking fellow, six feet tall, straight, black hair, dark grey eyes with a devilish twinkle. He weighed a hundred and seventy pounds. I felt sorry for this man, for he had to go along with us over without any training whatever. Naturally, being corporal, my responsibility became greater, and this caused me to get better acquainted with the new man than I would otherwise have become. It was soon apparent that Thompson was a live fellow, and with a good education-a graduate of Washington and Lee, he later told me.
Well, Thompson soon came to be the life of our squad, and later of the whole company. And when we sailed two weeks afterwards, he and I were pretty good friends. We used to sit together on the boat and talk over old college days, and about the girls we knew and
all that sort of thing. It did not take me long to find out that Thompson had a bit of untamed nature as well as I, so by the time we landed we had become buddies of the best sort. We had been in France only a month when orders came for us to go in the lines. I can see the look in old Thompson's face now. He wanted to get in it. Well, so did I for that matter. Isn't that funny? Such sinners as we were, actually wanting to give Jerry a shot at us. Well, we did, and we soon got our chance.
But each of us seemed to have a lucky star. We saw our buddies fall in the fields of Picardy and Flanders, and new ones take their places with never a scratch for us. We followed the colors in that terrible onslaught at St. Michial, but we didn't get touched. Thompson and I began to feel that we could go through anything, so by the time we came to the Argonne we were ready for it. But had not figured on so much Hell as that place was. Life didn't mean anything there ;it was a place where life could not survive. Death was predominant, and death in its most gruesome and horrible forms. Tangled masses of human flesh lay around us. And such pranks as those devilish whizz bangs played! There lay two of my fellows in a hole too small for both of them to hide in, so one was on top of the other. Suddenly the bottom man felt something sticky drop on his face. He spoke to his buddie, but his buddie didn't answer. A piece of shell had passed through his body. The fellow below rolled the dead body off of him, but he had to wear those same clothes soaked in his buddies blood for two months.
Two more fellows were lying stretched o n t h e ground side by side for protection. The man on the left felt something fly in his face. It was his buddies brains. But Thompson went through it every bit, and so did I. Then came the armistice, and we got a two week's furlough. And we celebrated rather than gave thanks.
Finally I was sent down to Langres on detatched service where I stayed thirty days. It was the time of the flu epidemic, and when I got back to my company I did not see Thompson. I asked for him. He had died three weeks before of double pneumonia; just a little over one week after passing untouched through indescribable bloody Argonne forest!"
Here Jake paused a little, and we began to wonder if there was any more to be told; he sat so quiet and seemed oblivious of everything around him. A faint ray of light fell on his face from the coals now almost dead. Still he gazed at them, but he was not through.
"I don't know why," he continued, "but as soon as I heard of Thompson's death, I thought of his mother. Maybe it was because she was so far away. She was in Brazil where Thompson's father was doing missionary work. Of course she was notified, and I even sent her a card myself. Well, the rest of our stay in France was pretty lonesome for me, but we didn't stay there very long; about two months. An old American freighter, the Nansemond, brought us back, and ten days after landing we were back at Camp Lee. On the afternoon of the second day in camp I got word that someone down at the hostess' house wanted to see me. I hurried to the place in the hope that I would see someone I knew. I went in and found a lady waiting for me. It was Thompson's mother!
And she had come all the way from South America to see the boys who had known and fought with Thompson. She was a wonderful woman. There she stood in black mourning, but she greeted me with a bright smile."
"Is this Jake Smith"? she asked calmly. I told her it was.
"I had imagined how you looked" she said, "from his letters. He always mentioned you when he wrote
home. And now Smith, I want you to tell me all you know about your experiences together over there". She motioned me to a chair and we sat down. I told her about the fights we were in and every little thing that I thought would help her. But the terrible . thing boys, was that there was not much good to be told! I felt like a coward, and could have cried. And she was so confident; so proud of her son, and so sure about me. When I had finished in the best way I could, she thanked me kindly; so kindly that I was overpaid a thousand times. Then for a few moments she was quiet. After a while she looked out towards the East, and what she said just cut the heart out of me. She said, "I'm sure you had a wqnderful influence on my boy in France."
I could not look at her. I, one of the biggest devils in the army! My God! what would I have given to have been able to look into that tender, trusting face of hers and say, 'We both had lived straight. But I couldn't say it.' Suddenly it seemed that not one speck of manhood was left in me, and I wanted to hide somewhere. Boys, you don't know what it means to face a situation like that.
She took my address and gave me hers in exchange. She invited me to see the family in South America, and told me goodbye. There was nothing else I could say, and so I left her. But her words stayed with me, condemning me all the time, and she meant to compliment me."
Jake stopped talking. There was a profound stillness in the room. The last coal flickered and died on the hearth. He stood up. "Rather late fellows," he said "Better break up this meeting." Neither of us said anything while getting our coats. We were feeling pretty much as Jake must have felt on the day he talked to Thompson's mother.
OSCAR LEE HITE
When the curtain rises at the end of this scholastic year upon the graduation exercises there will be several men on the stage, the loss of whom the University of Richmond will unquestionably feel. Among these men will be found Oscar Lee Hite. This gentleman has never been guilty of making the Honor Roll more than one time and that time his name did not appear in print, either because of a mistake or because of the shock received by the faculty when he made the Roll. Neither has Mr. Hite been guilty of failing on his classes. The truth of the matter is this: Mr. Hite has led such an active life on the campus, participating in so many college activities that his time and energy have been divided and the result of it is that he is given the honor of being one of the "All-round Men" on the campus, an honor to be coveted.
It was in 1917 that Mr. Hite came to Richmond College, having graduated from Oak Ridge Institute, after attending Virgilina High School three years. Since that time he has grown with the institution . His college career was interrupted in the year 1918 because of the war. After serving his country for several months in France he again entered college in 1919. Mr. Hite is a member of the Pi Kappa Alpha and the Omricon Delta Kappa fraternities. Before his senior year he served on the Y. M. C. A. Cabinet as Secretary of the Philologian Literary Society and Assistant Business
Manager of The Messenger. He also was on the cross country team and the track squad in his Junior year. This year he is President of the Philologian Literary Society, President of the Y. M. C. A. and Business Manager of The Messenger. Besides these things he won fifth place in the Marathon race held here in the city of Richmond recently . We are all expecting him to do great things on the track this coming spring.}. H. M.
NARCISSA B. DANIEL
Narcissa B. Daniel came up from North Carolina in the fall of 1918. Since that time she has developed from an irresponsible little Freshman to one of the most responsible officers in the college. She was Vice-President of the Freshman class, Secretary of Student Government in her Sophomore year, and is now House President.
Her athletic 'career must not be neglected . She was Captain of her class Hockey team in the fall of 1919. She made her Win Hockey in her Junior year and was Captain of Varsity in her Senior year. But what is vastly more important than any office she could hold is the fact that she can be truly called a "good sport" in the best sense of the word.
Narcissa has always been a concientious student and has attained far more than average success in her class work. But above all else which lends to her popularity is that intangible quality known as personality, which is so impossible to reduce to black and white. This N arcissa possesses in abundance.
ctexcbangt~
The William and Mary Literary Magazine. Quite appropriately the address of Dr. Chandler and President Harding appear in this issue. Dr. Chandler's address reflects his broad-minded ideas regarding higher education. President Harding rightly pays a tribute to the value of the small college. "Camera Stuff" is clearly worked out. "Pessimism," a lengthly essay, is treated in a scholarly manner. An interesting department of the magazine is called Virginia Folk Lore. Here we have given a graphic account of a "Tragedy of Indian Days."
The Occident. The Christmas Publication shows a varied array of short stories, poems, essays, and other valuable productions. "The Sorrowing of Emil" has a very well developed plot. Of a singular and praiseworthy character is the department entitled The Verse Guild. Here the poets of the University present their poems. "Nevada Night," a poem of merit, is typical of the fine quality of the verse printed here. "Delilah," a Farce in one act, is cleverly gotten up. The Occident can always be counted on when one wants an enjoyable reading hour.
The Wake Forest Student. The December issue comes off the press with its usual number of contributions. Perhaps the short stories could be more carefully worked out. In "The Winner," the plot seems a little farfetched. "Autumn Versus Winter," a poem, has a very good thought. The Editor writes an article "Why Not Dramatics," which is timely, and could be read with profit by several Southern Colleges.
The University of Richmond publishes the following list of Retail Merchants of Richmond, Va., for the information of students and faculty, and as a token of appreciation of the active and invaluable assistance given the University in the Million Dollar Campaign by the Retail Merchants Association:
A. A. Adkins & Co., Furniture, 1204 Hull St.
J. T. Allen & Co., Jewelers, 1323 E. Main St.
B. P. Ashton, Grocer, 616 E. Marshall St. Bell Book & Stationery Co., 914 E. Main St.
S. P. Bass, Men's Furnishings, 1624 Hull St.
0. H. Berry & Co .. Clothiers, 1019 E. Main St.
R. L. Booker, Drugs, 2001 W. Main St.
H. Carl Boschen, Shoes, 23 W. Broad St.
J. P. Bradshaw, Clothier, 600 E. Broad St.
E.L. Brandis, Drugs, 2601 Park Ave.
D. Buchanan & Son, Jewelers, 225 E. Broad St. Burk & Co., Clothiers, 800 E. Main St.
R. E. Burks & Co., Furniture, 212 W. Broad St. Bergman ' s Women's Ready to Wear, 3 E. Broad St. Braus, Women's Ready to Wear, 309 E. Broad St. Catlett Electric Co., Jefferson & Grace Sts.
W. S. Cavedo, Drugs. Floyd Ave. & Robinson St. Chaddick Motor Supply Co., Inc., 713 W. Broad St.
J. H. Chappell & Bro., Plumbers. 309 E. Main St.
R. E. Chelf Drug Co., Drugs, 1201 W. Broad St.
Childrey Drug Co., Drugs, 101 E. Broad St.
A. P. Chisholm, Grocer, 2800 Hull St.
R. L. Christian & Co., Grocers. 512 E. Broad St.
A. B. Clarke and Son, Hardware, 510 E. Broad St.
The Cohen Co., Department Store. 11 E. Broad St.
Harry V. Cole. Confectioner, 204 N. 4th St.
The Corley Co., Pianos, Victrolas, etc., 213 E. Broad St.
A. N. Cosby, Grocer, 1400 3rd Ave., H. P.
S. H. Cottrell and Son, Coal, 1103 W. Marshall St.
W. D. Crenghaw, Tobacco and Cigars. 1100 E. Main St.
M. Crighton, Millinery. 113 E. Broad St.
Crump and West Coal Co., 1811 E. Cary St.
Dabney Bros. & Co., Clothiers, 6 E. Broad St.
F. W. Dabney & Co., Shoes, 433 E. Broad St.
A. J. Daffron, Furniture, 1438 Hu11 St.
Danforth Millinery Co ., 216 N 2nd St.
Dann Millinery Co., 5 E. Broad St.
Dennis Auto Supply Co .. 301 W. Broad St.
C. H. Dorset Hardware Co .. 2600 Hull St.
Dreyfus & Co., Women's Ready to Wear. 201 E. Broad St.
A. Eichel & Co., Butchers. 330 N. 6th St.
W. E. Ellis, Grocer, 724 W. Broad St.
Stephen A. Ellison & Co., Coal, 602 E. Main St.
Epps and Breitstein, Clothiers, 812 E. Main St.
J. E. Eubank, Grocer, 2623 E. Broad St.
Fannye Millinery Co .. 204 N. 1st St.
Adam Feitig, Grocer. 119 E. Main St.
Lee Fergusson Piano Co., 119 E. Broad St.
Fourqurean, Temple & Co .. Dry Goods, 101 W. Broad St.
The Freed Co., Women's Rea'dy to Wear, 215 E. Broad St.
Galeski Optical Co., 737 E. Main St.
Gans-Rady Co., Clothiers, 816 E. Main St.
W. R. Gibbs, Meat Market, 1821 Hull St.
W. A. Gills, Grocer, 2401 W. Main St.
Gills and Atkins, Haberdashers, 917 E. Main St.
The Gift Shop. 320 E. Grace St.
R. E. L. Glasgow, Hardware, 1518 W. Cary St.
Globe Clothing Co., 613 E. Broad St.
Geode's Shoe Store, 1447 E. Main St.
Grant Drug Co., 626 E. Broad St.
W. T. Grant Co., 25c. Dept. Store. 321 E. Broad St
Wm. A. Green, Tailor, 519 E. Main St.
Meyer Greentree, Clothier, 701 E. Broad St.
C. Fred Grimmell, Plumber, 212 E. Broad St.
Frank B. Grubbs, "Paragon Pharmacy," 801 W. Cary St.
Chas. Haase and Sons, Furriers, 119 W. Broad St.
Henry R. Haase, Furrier. 207 E. Broad St.
G. L. Hall Optical Co., 211 E. Broad St.
The Hammond Co., Florists, 101 E Grace St.
C. B. Harper Hardware Co., 510 E. Marshall St. Harrison's Drug Store, 3901 Williamsburg Ave.
S. H. Hawes & Co., Inc., Coal, Building Supplies, 1801 E. Cary St. Hay and West, Grocers. 305 N. 6th St.
Hellstern Bros., Cigars and Tobacco, 633 E. Broad St. Hofheimer Bros. Co., Shoes, 300 E. Broad St. Hopkins Furniture Co., 25 W. Broad St. Holloday Co .. Auto Accessories, 629 E. Main St. Howell Bros., Hardware, 602 E. Broad St. Hub Clothing Co., 717 E. Broad St. Hunter & Co, Stationers. 105 E. Broad St.
H. C. Hurdle, Drugs, 1101 W. Cary St. Hutzler and Co., Dept. Store. 1201 Hull St. Huyler's Confectioner, 221 E. Broad St. Jacobs and Levy, Clothiers. 705 E. Broad St. Jahnke Bros., Jewelers, 912 E. Main St.
J. A. James. Jewelers, 633 E. Main St.
W. H. Jenks, Electrical Contractor, 621 E. Main St.
A. E. Johann, Drugs, 827 W. Main St.
Jonas Millinery Co., 115 E. Broad St.
Jones Bros. & Co., Furniture, 1418 E. Main St.
Chas. G. Jurgen's Son, Furniture, 27 W. Broad St. Kann's, Inc., Women's Ready to Wear, 109 E. Broad St. Kaufmann & Co., Millinery and Women's Ready to Wear, 401 E. Broad St.
C. D. Kenny Co., Tea : and Coffee. 606 E. Broad St.
G. R. Kinney Co., Shoes, 604 E. Broad St. Kirk-Parrish Co., Clothier, 605 E. Broad St.
John F. Kohler & Sons, Inc., Jewelers, 209 E. Broad St.
S. S. Kresge Co., Sc, 10c and 25c Stores, 429 E. Broad St. Lane-Bowles Co., Auto Supplies. 521 W. Broad St.
C. P. Latlhrop & Co., Coal, Building Supplies, 2018 W. Leigh St.
T. W. Leonard, Drugs, 724 N. 2nd St.
Levenson Cigar Co .. 908 E. Main St.
L. P. Levy and Co., Periodicals, 603 E. Broad St. Burnett Lewis, Dry Goods, 117 E. Broad St. Jacob Lewit and Son, Dry Goods. 1533 E. Main St. Long Coal Co., Inc., 1506 W. Broad St.
R. Lovenstein & Sons, Clothiers, 520 E. Broad St.
C. Lumsden and Son, Jewelers, 731 E. Main St. Main Street Market, 2101 W. Main St.
D. W. Mallory & Co., Coal, Marshall & Bowe Sts. Mann and Brown, Florists, 5 W. Broad St.
C. Manning Plumbing Co .. 1443 E. Main St. Samuel Meyer, Dry Goods, 1321 Hull St. W. Withers Miller, Drugs, 832 E. Main St. Miller and Rhoads, Department Store, 6th and Broad Sts.
T. A. Miller and Co., Drugs. 519 E. Broad St. Milwards, of New York, Women's Ready to Wear, 119 E. Broad St.
D. & E. Mitteldorfer, Dry Goods, 217 E. Broad St.
J. E. Morgan, Drugs, 334 S. Pine St.
J B. Mosby & Co., Dry Goods, 201 W. Broad St.
Walter D. Moses & Co .. Pianos, Victrolas. etc., 103 E. Broad St.
Frank Mosmiller, Florist, 115 E. Main St.
Nelson and Ladd, Inc., Coal, 1903 E. Cary St.
The Nowlan Co., J eweler.s, 921 E. Main St.
Old Dutch Market, 7th and Franklin Sts.
E. I. Parrish, Furniture. 415 W. Broad St.
Pettit & Co., Furniture. 7 W. Broad St.
J. E. Phillips and Son, Plumbers, 16 N. 7th St.
H. A. Pleasants, Hardware, 1607 W. Broad St. Ratcliffe & Tanner, Florists, 207 N. 6th St.
Mrs. M. B. Reinach, Milliner, 217 N. 1st St.
Richmond Art Co., 101 E. Grace St.
Richmond Dairy Co., 314 N. Jefferson St.
Richmond Gas and Electric Appliance Co, 412 E. Grace St. Richmond Grocery Co., 524 N. 6th St.
M. Rosenbloom and Son, Furniture, 1430 E. Main St. Rothert and Co., Furniture, 326 E. Broad St. Rountree Corp., Furniture, 111 W. Broad St. Royal Laundry, 311 N. 7th St.
Ryan, Smith & Co., Furniture. 123 W. Broad St. Schaaf Bros., Jewelers, 426 E. Broad St. Scheer and Son, Jewelers, 1411 E. Main St.
Mike Scher, Tobacco and Cigars, 901 E. Broad St.
Herman Schmidt, Grocer, 504 E. Broad St.
Maison Schwartz, Furrier, 3½ E. Broad St.
SchWarzschild Bros., Jewelers, 121 E. Broad St. W. E. Seaton and Son, Coal, 1129 W. Marshall St. Shepherd's, Inc., Confectionery, 107 E. Broad St.
A. Simon and Son, Tailors, 718 E. Main St.
W. A. Sorg & Co., Shoes. 324 E. Broad St.
Southern Furniture Co., 2 E. Broad St.
Southern Stamp and Stationery Co., 1206 E. Main St.
Specialty Shoe Co., 219 E. Broad St.
Albert Stein, Shoes, 424 E. Broad St.
Chas. M. Stieff, Pianos, 117 W. Broad St.
I. L. Sutherland & Son, Grain, 424 N. 6th St.
Swope's French Dry Cleaning Co ., 219 N. 1st St.
Seymour Sycle, Shoes. 11 W. Broad St.
Simon Sycle, Clothier, 14 W. Broad St.
Sydnor and Hundley, Furniture , 7th & Grace Sts . Tarrant Drug Co., 1 W . Broad St.
E. B. Taylor Co., Dept. Store, 15 W. Broad St .
Thalhimer Bros., Dry Goods, 5th & Broad Sts. Tragle Drug Co., 817 E. Broad St.
Jessie L . Trent. Grocer, 2r.YlN. Sycamore St.
Tyler and Ryan, Coal, 1001 W. Cary St . Ullman Bros., Grocers, 1215 Hull St.
Chas. W. Vaughan , Hrdware, 16 E. Broad St.
Vaughan and Chewning, Coal, 1320 W . Marshall St.
Virginia Auto Supply Co., 601 W. Broad St .
Virginia Railway and Power Co. , 7th & Franklin Sts.
H. F. Waldrop, Grocer. 316 Brook Ave .
Walk-Over Boot Sihop, 313 E. Broad St.
H . H. Wallis, Drugs, 500 E. Marshall St.
Washington and Early, Drugs , 1200 Hull St.
Watkins and Yarbrough, Jewelers, 204 E . Broad St .
The Weisberger Co ., Department Store, 312 E . Broad St.
Whitlock's Millinery, 315 E. Broad St.
L. D. Wingfield. Coal, 835 N . 17th St .
Woodall and Quarles , Clothier , 7 E. Broad St .
Horace S. Wright Co., Clothier, 21 E Broad St.
L. T. Wright Drug Co., 620 N. Lombardy St.
Young Men ' s Shop , Clothiers, 713 E. Broad St.
Real Flower Service
When you order flowers from this good Flower Shop you get the utmost service that modern facilities and careful attention to details can produce. No matter what the occasion may be, we will be glad to estimate on the order, and guarantee that you will get Flowers of Absolute Freshness, in beautiful designs, by our own expert floral artists. Mail or telephone orders receive the same attention that you would get if you came personally to the store.
