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8
A. B. CLARKE, '23_____________________________________Editor-in-Chief
W. G. KEITH, '23 ____________________________________Assistant Editor
0. L. HITE, '22 _____________________________________Business Manager
G. S. MITCHELL, '23 _____________________Assistant Business Manager
M. W. McCALL, '24 __________________________________Exchange Editor
H. S. WHITTED
M H. McCALL
C. N. SNEAD
J. B. KINCANON
W. N. BEEHLER
D E. MURRAY
MIRIAM NORMENT _________________________________Editor-in-Chief
PEGGY BUTTERFIELD ____________________________Assistant Editor
PEGGY BUTERFIELD _____________________________Exchange . Editor
HILDA BOOTH ____________________________________Business Manag er
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 communications and subscriptions should be directed to the Business Manager and Assistant Business Manager, respectively.
Address-
THE MESSENGER, University of Richmond, Va.
Treading so closely upon the heels of our Richmond College colleagues, as we must of necessity do, the new Westhampton staff hesitates to again ask your co-operation for THE MESSENGER. One gets tired of being preached at, we know, and we are afraid that our request for your help will be so misunderstood. It will be a misunderstanding indeed if it seems as if we were asking you to assume more than your share of responsibility for the magazine. We are not: The staff fully realizes that THE MESSENGERhas been entrusted to its care during the coming year, and it is with gravity that we look forward to filling the position occupied so ably during the past session.
It is with gravity, but with hope, too, for fools push in where angels fear to tread, and with the high-heartedness of those new to the game, we wish to be able to say to those who succeed us, "Here is THE MESSENGER. It is a better magazine than we found it, for during this year it has g.rown as the University has grown." That is what we want to say. Our next year is a long time off and meantime, we are going to try to do our best, and we ask you to do yours. You can write, you know. Won't you? And let us know, please, when you do. Perhaps, after all, we are only afraid of ourselves and our job, and are begging you a little wistfully to help us out.
M.N.
RoBT. C. AsTROP.
Some folks say it's never right to tell anything but the truth, and others say there's such a thing as a "white lie." Maybe. And maybe it's always wrong to cheat playing cards; then, maybe it ain't. I'm telling you about the time "Six" Jordan stacked the deck in a game of poker aboard the stern-wheeler, General P. G. T. BeaU,regard , off "Goose-Neck Point" on the Mississippi River. "Six" lived when beaver hats, guns, whiskey toddies, and codes of honor were in fashion and he is gone these long years, but, somehow, I don't want him plumb forgot. That's why I'm telling you this, but maybe he doesn't know. We'll have to take a chance on that.
One morning in the fall of "Seventy-one" Major Dante Wirt ate breakfast by candle-light in his plantation house in St. Timothy Parish, Louisiana, and set out for New Orleans to take the steamer up the river. He took with him his little daughter, Martha. When he told his wife good-bye, he made her two promises, which he believed with all his heart he would keep. He gave her his word he would not gamble and he promised to take care of Martha, who was the only child.
Arrived in New Orleans, he drew from the bank his wife's little savings and , every cent he possessed, and he and Martha boarded the General BeaU,regard.
The Louisiannian seated himself lazily in a deck chair on the sunny side, and bade Martha stay near him. Soon after the ship churned off from its pier, he fell asleep. When he awoke, Martha was not to be seen. He found her in an alcove of the saloon holding an apple to a strange man's mouth. The man was on his
knees biting at it. His hat was off and a high, broad forehead and sleek, black hair were revealed. He had grey-blue eyes, about which the shadow of a twinkle lingered and a mouth that smiled as if it were used to it. The lines of his face showed that he had laughed through life.
"Your little lady, sir?" queried the stranger . "She sure is," the Major assented.
"She's a little queen, sir," laughed the man. "Dady," piped the child, happily, "me and this man is pards, we are. Ain't we big pard ?"
"You bet we are, little pard," he retorted.
"See, daddy? He calls me little pard and I call him big pard. Ain't that ncie ?"
She threw her arms about his neck and he held her close.
"Let her stay with me, sir," he entreated; "I'll take care of her."
The child begged with her eyes and clung to his neck and the Major, at last, yielded.
The hours of the day sped by and the child romped with the man. She played with his watch. She rode him as a horse. She untied his cravat and went through his pockets. He whittled her tink boats and toy windmills, bought her candy and big square cakes with scalloped edges, and blew cigar smoke into her face until she sneezed. Many times she left him to skip to her father with some trinket or to clamber onto the back of his chair and kiss the baid spot on his head.
It was near to dark when the General Beauregard put into Vicksburg. Martha and her comrade leaned over the rail and she listened to the songs of the roustabouts at their work and noted the comical walk each affected as he trundled his heavy truck up and down the
gang-plank. She clapped her hands together and cried out delightedly at every new sight that greeted her eyes. She had told her companion the object of her father's journey up the river. He was going to Louisville to pay the mortgage on his plantation and buy "blue grass" horses. She had vivid dreams of the soda water and candy of Kentucky.
The Major was much pleased when two old comrades of army days got on at Vicksburg. The trio held a reunion in the bar and after gallant toasts had been drunk, they went to supper. Martha and her new acquaintance were leaving the dining room as they entered. The Major's friends greeted the stranger cordially.
As they sat down to the table, Dr. Martin turned to the Major: "That was 'Six' Jordan," he said. "You know 'Six, don't you?"
"Only through my little daughter," replied the Major, "they have been great friends today." "Six" is a card player, you know, but he's the squar. est gambler that ever held a pair of deuces. That fellow has got a strict code of honor. He never cheats. Everybody from New Orleans to Cairo will tell you that. He's fair and clean and I'm warning you, that if you tell "Six" he cheats, you'd better pick your favorite parson and the hymns, ·because he can handle a "shooting-iron" faster than your eye can travel.
After supper the Major went in search of Martha, for it was her bed time. He found her asleep in "Six" Jordan's lap. Her touselled head lay upon his shoulder; one hand clutched his thumb; the other was about his neck.
The man looked out over the water through the smoke of his cigar at the lights of Vicksburg, now as shining pin-heads in the distance. He stroked the little girl's
hair and the Major thought he saw a tear glint in the blue-grey eye.
The Major led the way to his state-room. The stranger carried the child there in his arms and placed her gently in her berth. Then he stooped and kissed her cheek, whispering, lest he wake her, "Good-night, little pard.".
Eight bells of the evening found the Major, Dr. Martin, Colonel Charles, and "Six" Jordan seated at a card table in the smoking room. A Mexican showed enough money to make a mint jealous and the quartet took him into the game.
The negro who tended bar had been busy. The Major was drunk. The others were near unto it. If anybody had mentioned to the 1\1:ajor his promise not to gamble, he would have laughed at it But the promise never entered his mind.
"Six" was the soberest. It was hard to get him drunk. He tried to keep the Major from drinking more, but that gentleman continued to drink, and, at last, he began to lose account of all that went on around him. The faces of the players grew more and more hazy; the spots on the cards more and more blurred; his limbs more and more useless; and, at last, he faded from consciousness in its true sense and his movements and thoughts became mechanical and it seemed as if he were dreaming the things that took place about him. At last all was blank to him.
When he came to consciousness again, he lay in his berth. All was dark. He stared wild-eyed, gripping at his throat, trying to understand where he was. The events of the night were jumbled in his memory. His head hummed. He tried to ·crawl from his berth, but he found himself still drunk physically, though the deep
slumber had somewhat revived his mind from its stupor. At last, he managed to clamber from his berth. :f-Iebegan to look for his money, scarce believing what his memory bade him know. He groped about in the gloom like a mad-man. He looked under his pillow. He went through every pocket in his clothing. The money was gone.
He reeled back to his berth. He was scarce conscious of the deep breathing of Martha, who slept. He thought hard. It seemed as if it hurt his head to think. An expression of agony burst from his lips. He swore under his breath. He prayed. It was all clear to him now. "Six" Jordan had won his money; every cent he had. Rage boiled with him. The blood rushed to his head so violently that everything seemed red.
"So that is the way he works his game is it? Gain your confidence and then rob you. He's a thief! He's a damned scoundrel!" he cried aloud.
He was shouting, so great was his wrath, but Martha slept undisturbed.
He got his revolver with the one blind idea-to kill. Suddenly, like a plunge in icy water, he recalled how the Mexican had lost all his money and how he had tried to stab "Six." He remembered the incredibly swift movement of "Six's" hand. He heard again in memory the crack of the revolver. He saw in vivid detail how the Mexican had crumpled to the floor, on the breast of his shirt a little red spot that grew bigger and bigger, always bigger.
Then the Major's eyes stared into the darkness. Another idea came to him. He gripped the cold steel of the weapon until his hand was numb. He fingered the chambers over and over to see that every one held a cartridge. He shut his eyes. He ground his teeth together. He
placed the muzzle to his temple. He whispered to his wife, whose face arose before him as in a vision, "I lied to you."
His finger felt for the trigger and found it. Then he heard a muffled shout. Then another. And many terrified voices. They grew louder, more distinct, and at last the whole ship shuddered with the alarm. There was a rushing to and fro and heavy feet shuffled on the deck above his berth. The Major listened motionless and understood.
It was the cry of "Fire!"
He hurled the pistol from him. He had but one thought then. He determined to make good one promise to his wife. He must save Martha! He leaped to the floor obsessed with the one idea. He took the child in his arms and started for the door. It was thrown open in his face. The glow of a cigar and a calm, musical voice no one could mistake, told the Major that the figure in the doorway was the gambler.
"You dress, I'll save the little girl," he commanded.
The Major knew by the ring in his voice that he would do his best. By the light of the fire, which could be heard popping like musketry, the Major saw "Six" take off his long coat and wrap Martha in it as he climbed the companionway.
Major Wirt leaped into his clothes and sprang to the deck. He learned from another traveller that the Captain of the ship and the mates had got off in the first boat and left the passengers to their fates.
Another boat was putting off. By the firelight he made out Martha in a woman's lap, swaddled in the gambler's coat. Then he saw "Six."
He stood straight in his shirt sleeves, a blued steel six-shooter in each hand, a cigar in his mouth, crying in
a voice that rang clear-toned above the roar of the flames: "Women and children first, and I'll shoot the first damned coward that tries to leave the ship. Plenty of time. Lower the boat, men."
When the Major came near to him, he turned and said: "The kiddie's safe on the shore."
While the boats rattled down one by one off their davits, "Six" stood firm,'his head thrown back, smoking a cigar, giving directions.
A roustabout stole forward and tried to leap into a life-boat crowded with women. One of "Six's" revolvers flashed and the negro, with a convulsive shudder, pitched into the water. An eddy swirled about the place where he went down and frothy blood gurgled up.
I'm not going to tell you about how the flames from the "General Beauregard)) leaped to the skies and painted them red and how "Six" and the Major commanded everything until the last life-boat was manned and loaded and only they were left.
One of the oarsmen yelled: "Can't take but one more! One of you stay and we'll come back for him. We can make it back before she sinks."
The two men looked at the life-boat and at each other and each read the answer to the silent question in the other's eyes. The sea was awash the gunwales of the life-boat. One more passenger might be hazarded aboard her. Two would sink her as sure as doom.
They looked at the steamer all aflame and they knew that no boat could reach shore ·and return before the "General Beauregard)) burned to the water's edge.
The Major stood silent. "Six" took the cigar from his mouth and replaced it slowly. Then he drew a deck of cards from his pocket and dropped them onto the head of a whiskey barrel which was nearby.
Drawing slowly at his cigar and looking intently at the cards, he said, calmly: "Cut for deal."
"Six" got the deal with an ace. H e shuffled the deck and dealt as if he'd been playing draw-poker back in New Orleans, safe and sound in Tim McCarthy's place.
The two men took up their hands. "Show down," said ''Six," and he spread his hand out on the barrel top. The oarsmen in the life-boat swore at the delay, but they were afraid of "Six's" guns.
The Major looked hard at the cards and swallowed. "Six" had three kings.
The Major covered his face with his hand. The fire flared up with a mighty roar, as it found some highly inflammable substance. The oarsmen in the life-boat swore among themselves. A passing night-bird screamed wierdly.
The Major laid his cards down; three aces. The two men shook hands in silence.
A;; the boat pulled off from the "General Beauregard," the Major looked back and he could see "Six" standing proud-like; his figure shadowed against the flames, his cigar glowing in his mouth, his arms folded across his chest. "Six" was waiting.
After all the passengers of the last life-boat were ashore, the Major fell to his knees in the sand and thanked God for saving the little girl who clung to him, her arms about his neck.
The light of the burning ship showed on the river for a long time, casting a lurid glow to the shore and making the trees look like skeletons. And then, all at once, it went out like a candle when a draught strikes it, leaving the slate-grey dawn. Somewhere out in that dusky morning was "Six" Jordan.
As the light began to sift down, Martha put a big bag of something into the Major's hand. He examined it wonderingly in the faint light. It contained many times as much money as he had ever seen before.
"Where did you get it, sweetheart?" he asked in amazement.
"Big pard give it to me for a curl," was the reply. The Major held the money in his hand for a long time and looked out over the mysterious river, shimmering in the first rosy light of day, but he did not know that "Six" Jordan had broken his code of honor and stacked the cards.
LOUISE WILKINSON, '24.
There's a road winds into the sunset In the hush of the dying day, Wanders through meadows of misty blue, Over haze-haunted hills, and away Past dusky woodlands where leaf lets and stream Are murm'ring their dreamy lay.
The air is sweet with the ghosts of flowers, And the touch of a friendly hand Is felt in the breezes, petal-softThe echos of songs unscanned Beat in a vibrant melody That the heart can understand. And dreams long dead seem to meet them Who follow that broad highway, When the dust turns to gold in the sunset And the daylight steals gently away.
There is a development of civilization more wonderful than wireless; more inscrutable than central; more mysterious than micro-organisms; more all-embracing than synthetic pearl necklaces ; more marvelous than Margot; more complex than all of Freud's put together. At my service are hundreds of palatial conveyances, built with much thought for my personal comfort, drawn by tremendous tea-kettles along rails put down expressly for my convenience between where I am and where I want to go, at Heaven knows what expense and outlay of blood and sweat. The whole business was conceived, planned, brought into being and wrought to a high plane of efficiency for no other purpose on earth than that I might be borne regally from point to distant point as my whimsy should dictate. I am more truly master of the Twentieth Century Limited than Ptolemy was of his river-barge. He, poor fellow, lived in constant dread of assassination at the hands of some vengeful galley-slave. My attendants do not recognize in me their lord and master, wherefore I am safe from such unpleasantness. They are none the less my slaves. The engineer carries out my will as steadfastly and as whole-heartedly as if I stood behind him in his cab with a pistol at his head.
I dismount. I have an air of singular elan, for I know that a host of faithful retainers is handling, or manhandling, my baggage, and will in due time convey it to my castle. I look about me in satisfaction. This is the two-million-dollar terminal building, built, furnished, decorated and made comfortable in a thousand and one ways against the day of my arrival. It is mine. It was put there by thoughtful members of my household ex-
pressly and unequivocally for me. It was an act of abject homage on their part. I stick my fingers in the armsoles of my waistcoat. I am content.
I adjourn to the street. More gleaming rails, set in asphalt paving imported for me from Trinidad. A large enclosed electric drives up and stops for my reception. It, too, is mine, together with the power-house, lines and poles that make its movement possible. It obeys punctually my imperious summons to stop where I wish to alight.
Dusk has fallen upon my metropolis. Across the street gleams a large electric sign, designed, erected, and maintained night in and night out in patient anticipation of my well-disposed scrutiny. It reads: Chop Suey. I am seduced. I enter, aflame with desire for cuisine a la Chine. I regard the bill of fare, evidently set up and printed for my exclusive enlightenment. Like the proverbial ass hesitating between the bales of hay, I weigh the respective merits of the Min, Don and Fon groups. These classes are divided into orders, but here the analog-y to systematic zoology ceases. The Min are the noodles, boiled and fried. Individual orders are Guy So l\1in, Sam So Min, Wat Guy Min, Chow Min , Yet Kwo Min and winsome slippery Woo Min. Woo Min is an excellent wooer, if one may treat the subject with levity, of woozy chin music. I pass up Guy, Sam and their kindred, though not without reluctance as I recall the acoustic properties of Chow Tune Far Min. This, according to the menu, is compounded of noodles, boneless chicken ( do they mean eggs?), mushrooms, water chestnuts and bamboo shoots. Fo ra slight additional charge they will add fricasseed field mice, sliced shark epidermis, predigested bladderwort and boiled puffballs. It is fine stuff, but not just what I want at the moment. I continue to scan the category.
"Don" is Chinese for "Spanish omelet," which shows that the world is not so large after all. What I really crave is Class Fon, Order Subgum. Subgum ! What a tremendous lot of meaning seems to be packed into that word! It suggests sub rosa, and gum-shoe, and fuses these cognate ideas in a most furtive fashion. Realization does not dispel the sense of mystery aroused by the appellation "Subgum." Upon removing the dish cover my eyes light upon a collection of organic substances representing 499,999 out of the 500,000 known species of animal and plant life, Homo Sapiens being the sole exception.
Speaking authoritatively, I may say that the average taste of all plant and animal life is something- between that of a greasy French fried potato and a cheap wiener, such as one obtains at pleasure resorts.
Subgum Fon is the supreme example of what I am driving at, the miracle of co-operation. The Chinese say that Subgum Fon is quite unknown in China. Subgum Fon contains elements from Greenland's icy mountains (fungi), from Africa's coral strand (dates), from the vasty deep (red algae and fragments of fish). It includes tributes from the heavens above, the earth beneath, the waters under the earth and all way stations. There is beef from Argentina, sea-weed from Japan, imported ham from China; tliere are mushrooms from lvianchuria, bamboo shoots from Bombay, selected rats from Calcutta, ducks from Delaware, chickens from Connecticut; there are traces of ginger from Jamaica, fermented bean-juice from Mongolia, limes from California, calves' -foot jelly from Schenectady and chile from Mexico, to enumerate only a few random tid-bits I find upon my fork.
It is the crowning achievement of enlightened intercourse among men and nations.
R. E. GARST, '22.
Jupiter, being in a true jovial mood, turned one day to his wife, Juno, the first lady of Olympus, who reclined indolently on a comfortable couch with a self satisfied smirk on her face, knowing that she had a new headdress with which to dazzle the other ladies of the realm and said:
"My dear, I have an idea."
"Oh, Jupe," said the lady petulantly, "don't bother me with any more of your scatter-brained ideas . I feel ill. The nectar was curdled this morning so you'll have to get after the ice-man again. Besides, it's hot on this mountain top and the flies are bad. Why can't we move to our bungalow down on the Aegean Sea for the summer?"
"Business, my dear; business," replied Jupiter, vaguely. "I can't afford to let the world run for a month by itself . But listen to my idea. You know I had a bad morning at golf and I must do something to relieve my feelings. I've often wondered what a man would do if he had only a very short time to live, and knew it. It ought to be a very bad man, for he would have a hard job deciding what to do or it wouldn't be worth the trouble to try it. Mere, bring me my card index. These modern business methods worry me, but they help out sometimes."
Mercury rose lazily from his typewriter, on which he had been writing a billet-doux to Venus, and sauntered out. He returned presently followed by two subordinates, bearing a bulky file. Jupiter ran through it nonchalantly and finally stopped.
"It really doesn't matter very much. Ah, yes. Here's John Smith, of Atlanta, Georgia. He's a waster and a very good subject for my little diversion. \Ve'll try it on him. Mere, send word to the Three Fates that John Smith's life line is to be cut just before sunrise three days from now and let John know about it in the usual way."
Mercury finished his letter, signed his name with a flourish, and hopped off to deliver the messages. When he returned, Jupiter, between sips of nectar, asked what the Fates had had to say.
"They were put up in the air," said Mercury. "Likewise they wished you would mind your own business and let them run things to suit themselves. Said you were always butting in and messing things up."
"Just like women," murmured Jupiter so his wife wouldn't hear it. "Hate to be told to do anything. Well, attend to Smith, and then we'll lie around and watch the fun. Turn on the fan and pull the shade down. I wish that bloomin' sun-god wasn't such a creature of habit and had to drive his chariot around this way v\'hen I want to sleep."
John Smith was a waster; there was no doubt about it. His family admitted it, his friends declared it, and his creditors swore it. Even John admitted it, so it must have been so. That is, he admitted it when he got past the point of caring what happened to him. And, if the truth must be told, he was beyond that point most of the time.
John lived in a bachelor's apartment so that he wouldn't have to be bothered by anyone but his English butler and his creditors. He usually dragged himself in, or was helped in, during the wee sma' hours of the
morning. His friends said that he was drinking himself to death and it was probably a fact, since he was drunk every night of his life. His doctor had told him a number of times that he would be dead in six months if he did not stop it, but he had proved the good man a liar twice and didn't consider it worth while to listen to him any more.
After the marriage of Virginia Page, John had taken himself off to New York for an indefinite period. Vague rumors of his excesses and his exploits there drifted back to Atlanta and everybody had begun to shrug their shoulders or nod a knowing head whenever his name was mentioned. He finally came back to Atlanta, apparently for no reason at all. But there was one.
And, because of the nature of things, there was a reason for him letting go his hold on himself and his manhood. There always is and usually it's a woman. John was no exception to the general rule. Before the wedding of Virginia Page to Sydney Carter, John had been as upright and honest a young man as one would wish to find. His family was well-to-do, even rich, and John, himself, had more money than he knew what to do with, thanks to an indulgent grandmother.
And there was the cause, the wedding. John was in love with Virginia, had been since they were school boy and girl together. And the sad part about it was that she loved him. John knew that and they had built castles in Spain for years about what they would do when they were married.
Now enters the complication in the form of the affable and rich Sydney Carter. The Pages were not rich and, unfortunately, Virginia's mother had luxurious habits and an overpowering desire to climb in society.
John had money, but not as much as Sydney Carter, and he was shuffled off into the discard without a murmur from anyone but Virginia, backed up by a loud outcry from John himself. But it did no good. It never does. Despite his pleading, Virginia would not consent to run away with him and get married. And so his doom was signed, sealed and delivered.
Now, John would have taken his quietus like a gentleman and with less publicity if it had not been for one thing. And that was that he knew Sydney Carter. He had gone to school with him in Virginia, had known him for four years there, and for three years more at Harvard. They had graduated in law together and John had heard of him many times since. And none of the rumors that had gone the rounds in college circles had been too savory. John had heard several anecdotes from the lips of the affable Sydney himself, that, Southern gentleman that he was, made him blush to hear. And now that the beast had married his own sweetheart, it withered his very soul to think of it. But he could not tell Virginia what he knew. A gentleman can not do that sort of thing, suh !
It was to his English butler, and then only when he had gone beyond the point of caring, that he unburdened his soul.
"Hawkins, if I were a gentleman I'd kill the beast with my own hand. But I'm no longer a gentleman or I wouldn't be drunk every night of my life. By God, suh, I can't stand much moah of this. The devil will g-et ahold of me yet, and I'll kill him as suah as theah' s a God in Heaven." And then John would break down and cry like a baby. Hawkins yearned to take the broken-hearted boy in his arms and comfort him like a child, but he was English to the heart of him. He would have sold his soul to help his master, but he was beyond help.
It was one night, about six months after Virginia's marriage, when John was brought home to his apartment by a friend. It took John several minutes of smothered and broken swearing to get his door unlocked. He swayed drunkenly into his living room and from there to his bed room.
"'Awkins, you bloomin' idiot. Come 'ere that I may implant a kiss on thy brow. Snap into it, Hawkins, I feel like I can sleep tonight, or rather this morning. Come and undress me, old thing, that I may rest my weary bones,"
He kept up a running fire of conversation as Hawkins proceeded carefully to undress him. When he was in his pajamas he turned to the man and said, almost soberly:
"Was there ever such a damn fool as I am, Hawkins?"
"No, sir-that is, Hi mean, sir"-
Don't qualify it, Hawkins; you said what you thought. You're so damn honest. I reckon that's why we get along so well. Don't wake me up tomorrow. I'll sleep this off."
It was about six o'clock when Hawkins heard his master calling for him in an agonized voice.
"Hawkins! Hawkins! Come heah ! Come heah !" The voice died away in an agonized wail.
The man hurried to the bedroom as fast as he could and found his master lying unconscious on the floor.
"Lord 'elp us; he's got them at last."
After working over him for ten minutes he was relieved to see the eyelids flutter. In a few more minutes John was sitting on the bed holding his head in his hands.
"My head's about to break wide open," he moaned. "Hawkins do you heah anything?"
"No, sir. Not a thing."
"I could sweah there was someone speaking to me; I'll nevah forget them. 'John Smith, you have three more days to live.'"
Hawkins shook his head sadly. He thought his young master had at last succumbed to drink.
John got back into bed and tried to go to sleep again but the words kept running in his head. "John Smith, you have three more days to live." "John Smith, you have three more days to live." He opened his eyes to assure himself that his surroundings were real. Tis throbbing brain ref used to think and the words kept run,. ning in his mind. The insistent tinkling of the phone bell at ten o'clock brought him out of his doze. He heard Hawkins answering.
"Yes, madam, this is Mr. Smith's apartment. He is not to be disturbed. Will you call later? I am very sorry, madam-"
John appeared at the door and went to the phone.
"All right, Hawkins; I'll answer. Hello. Yes, this is John Smith. Who!" His face became suddenly white. "Well, Virginia," he went on in a strained voice, "Why are you calling me at this time of day? Yes, I understand. But I can't see what good it will do for me to come up. Very well, since you ask it." He hung- up slowly. "What on earth can she want with me? I don't think I can stand it."
"Hawkins, lay out my clothes. I'm going out."
He dressed slowly.
"What day of the week is it, Hawkins? Thursday? Then it will be Sunday morning. That will be exceedingly fitting and propah. Hawkins, I think I won't be with you very long. You know what happened this morning. Call it presentiment, or what you wish, I believe it
was the truth. I don't know what I shall do in the next three days. Probably celebrate. Bring me some paper." He sat down and wrote for a while, rose and handed it to the servant.
"You may read it, Hawkins; it concerns you."
Hawkins read: "In case of my death, all my property, real and personal, shall become the property of my faithful friend, Cecil B. Hawkins. It shall be turned over to him immediately without the law entering into the case, since this is my only will. Signed, John S. Smith."
"I shall take this to a lawyer and have it properly executed so there will be no trouble afterwards."
Tears stood in the eyes of the old servant as he watched his master go out. Again he shook his head sadly as he went back to his work.
John rang the bell at the home of Sydney Carter. He did not think of it as being the home of Virginia, for he was sure that it was not that. Only misery could be the result of marriage with Carter.
The maid showed him into the library and Virginia came to him there. He noted the change in her. Her eyes weary and had almost a wild light in them. She was pale and a little thinner than when he saw her last. But she was the same beautiful girl that he would give his life for.
John was not the same either. Six months of debauchery had changed him from a healthy, normal Southern boy into a pale, saddened wreck of a man. Only his eyes were the same and she knew what she could read there if she looked.
"Well, Virginia, we are somewhat changed, aren't we?" said John, searching for something to say, and struggling to keep his poise. He saw that it was the wrong thing to say the minute it was out, so he remained silent.
Virginia was twisting her hands nervously. "John," she said, a little pleadingly, "we have made a sad mess of everything." John muttered the "we" again under his breath, but being a gentleman, he said nothing. "I can't stand this any longer. Do you know what kind of man I have married? Oh, it is terrible. I can't live with him another day. He's a beast."
John was silent. It would do no good for him to say anything. Virginia knew now all that he knew, and no doubt a great deal more. He could see that she was desperate or she would never have called on him, a jilted lover, to help her. It was monstrous that this beautiful girl should be tied to a cad like Carter. A great rage rose in him.
"What do you want me to do, Virginia?"
"Oh, I don't know. I don't know. I don't know that you can do anything. I had to tell someone and I knew that you would understand. You always have. Mother would not or she would never-but there is no use bringing that up again. John, I'm nearly crazy. I don't think I can bear to see that man again.
John reflected. There were a number of things that he could do, but he must pick the most effective. It did not matter to him, because he was a doomed man. He felt to the depths of his being that Sunday morning would see him a dead man. He did not care particularly; there was nothing he could live for now. He had made a mess of things after Virginia had married and he could not undo them. There was no use to try to do better. He was not sorry that he had to go; he had no fear of death. The last thing he would do in this world would be a worthy thing. It would make up for everything that he had left undone before. He had been a waster. He would make atonement. He made a great resolve and then turned to Virginia:
"I can help you, Virginia, and I will. Will you forgive anything that I do to help you?"
"Oh, anything, anything, to end this misery."
"Very well. When will he be home?"
"Tomorrow afternoon."
"Good. Whatever I may do, Virginia, remembah that I do it because I lov eyou. Now that's not acting like a gentleman, is it? But I think I shall act like a man for the next few days. After that, I don't reckon it mattahs much. Good-bye, Virginia, I shall not see you again. Your greatest trouble will soon be ovah. Remember me kindly, for I shall have been a gentleman at the last."
"Why, John! You talk as though you were going to die, or something."
"Who knows," said John, smiling.
The next evening John appeared at the Carter home dressed as for dinner and asked to see Mr. Sydney Carter. Me was shown into the library again. Sydney Carter came in shortly and asked rather brusquely what he wanted. John went to the door, closed it carefully.
No one ever knew what passed between the two men. The servants and Virginia a little later heard a shot and the sound of a falling body. The door opened and John walked out calmly, as though nothing had happened. He put on his coat and hat and glanced up to see the white face of his old sweetheart on the stairs. He smiled sadly and bowed.
"If anyone wants me," he said to the servant, "I shall be at my apartment."
Later that evening he was arrested for the murder of Sydney Carter. He had nothing to say and was put into his cell to wait his trial.
"Ah, well," he thought, "it will not be long."
Old Hawkins searched the Sunday morning paper for the news that he expected to find. It was there. The dead body of John Smith had been found in his cell. There were no marks of violence on him and it was supposed he died of heart failure. Hawkins knew better and silently he mourned for the master that he had loved. Virginia read the same story. "Oh, John, John," sh~ cried, "did you not know that I would rather exist in a living hell than that you should be his murderer. You could not have killed yourself. You were too brave for that. You must have known. You must have known." * * * * *
Jupiter had just come off second best in a spat with his buxom wife when the news was brought to him. "Hm," he ruminated, "not so good. Who would have thought that the man would have acted like that. There's no telling what men will do. I'll have to try it some time to see if they act alike. Well, put him to work with Vulcan for an eon or two; it will do him good. Now, my dear, don't start again about moving down to the sea shore. This world simply cannot get along without me and I must tend to business."
w., '24.
From out the dark pit of despair)
Amid the murky loathesome air) I !if t my eyes; Above the darkness) damp and drear, A ray of light seems to appear) And brighter skies.
A bout me) there is naught but night) Above) there beams a feeble light)
One ray of hope; Is it but an illusive ray) Or is)t indeed the dawn of day, Toward which I grope?
Held down by fear) on hopes I climb, And strain to reach that light sublime, So dimly seen;
O'er shadowed now, I cannot see, Yet blindly trust to presently, Behold the sheen.
w. A. MCNEILL, '24.
Just how old the study of palmistry is, we have no means of knowing, but we are certain that as far back as there is any historical record this art, or science, as it has been variously called, was practiced. There was a time when this study held a prominent place and the words of the palmist were accepted withoµt question and considered as infallible; later along with other more or less occult appearing practices, it was considered as criminal and was punished by death; of late, with our broader views, we have ceased to persecute those engaged in this and similar practices, being content to regard them as clever humbugs, whom we pay for amusing us and laugh at, while we are puzzled as to the method by which startling results are often obtained.
However , there are at this time some who still place faith in the study of the hand and anxiously seek to have their past, present and future made clear. I dO'not profess to belong to this class, but neither do I side with those who laugh at the whole study as foundationless and based on sham and pretense. To make my position clear , I do not believe that the fortune-teller can find lines in my palm which show that two years ago I was in love with a red-headed girl with blue eyes; that she threw me over for a blond man with two gold teeth and that I am now engaged to the sister of this man, who has now added a third gold tooth to his display.
Detailed revelations of this kind, if they be correct , I believe to be accomplished either by skillful questioning on the part of the fortune-teller, or possibly by telepathy, if we must seek some unnatural explanation. This sort
of reading is given by the professional who has no purpose other than to satisfy the inquirer and therefore tells what his customer wishes to be told.
But there is an entirely different type of palmistry, according to which one is told only general and important facts in the past which might be expected to leave some stamp on the personality of the individual; personal traits and characteristics rather than specific facts about the present and general types of events in the future which would be the logical outcome of past experiences and present tendencies. While I am not quite satisfied as yet, I am inclined to place some confidence in this type of palmistry.
We must recognize, of course , that abstract generalities may be made to apply to a great variety of cases and that it is a quality of the human mind to note the unusual , so if the palmist makes general statements he is almost certain to be correct in a majority of them and the subject may be depended upon to forget many of the in-correct ones, crediting the palmist with an even gre a ter proportion of correct interpretations. This appears to be a possible solution, but two years of careful observation in scores of instances have convinced me that it is inadequate and that we must seek farther for our explanation.
Although we still may find some difficulty in allo w ing that knowledge about a person may be obtained from his hand because it seems at first thought that the lines of the hand have no connection with the personality an d we object to a supernatural explanation, here again we find that some physical and natural basis may be discovered .
The hand is more closely connected with and under more minute control of the brain that any other part of the body, the extremely sensitive touch of the blind and the great variety of uses to which we put the hand bearing
witness to this fact. From psychology we know that every experience, every act, every thought is definitely and permanently registered on the brain and produces some change in the structure of the brain.
If then, the brain is constantly changing, as we know it is, and the hand is constantly changing, as observation will convince us that it is, is it fat fetched to suggest that these changes bear some definite relation to each other and that changes in the character and personality may be read in the features and lines of the hand?
As in all experiments on persons, we can verify this only by assigning certain meanings to lines and features and nothing whether these hold good in a great majority of the cases observedthe tabulated results of these observations comprise the real science of palmistry.
We all believe in and practice palmistry to a certain extent-we instantly recognize the workman, the artist or the musician by his type of hand ; doctors examine the finger-nails as indicating a healthy or diseased condition. Is it then a very long step from this to the belief that long finger-nails denote the idealistic imaginative person, while short ones denote the critical analytical nature; that narrow nails show lack of self-confidence, whole broad ones show a self-assertive disposition?
From this it is but another step to the belief that a stiff jointed thumb shows a stubborn, determined nature, while flexible joints indicate versatility and adaptability. Then we find that a long index finger denotes executive ability while an abnormally long fourth finger denotes tact and diplomacy to a high degree. From these conclusions, based on the features of the hand, we find little difficulty in passing to the lines and saying that good health is denoted by a straight clear life-line, while past illnesses of a serious nature have left their marks as islands or breaks in this line. We find the degree of men-
tality, denoted by the length and quality of the headline, while a wavy, broken heart-line evinces a person fickle and changeable in his affections. Palmists say that our right hands change with us, while our lest hands remain to show our natural tendencies. What we were or might have been and observations seem to indicate the truth of this statement.
These conclusions do not seem far-fetched to menor am I accepting them from professionals who may have a special gift for deception or for detecting the characteristics of a subject. Becoming interested in this study some two years ago, I gave some study to the indications of the hand as given by two prominent palmists in their books and then set out, purely as an amusement for myself and friends to read ( occasionally to the subject, but often merely to myself), every palm which I had the opportunity to examine.
Starting without any faith in the science, observation has about convinced me of the genuineness of it; I have found the palms of friends to correspond with their traits as I knew them; I have discovered things about them which I had never suspected and which I refused to believe until I verified them later; I have told absolute strangers or new acquaintances things which shocked and surprised them. This is all in spite of the fact that I '.lm a mere novice and can observe and interpret only a few of the commoner indications, and I have known about five or ·six other amateurs who profess an experience similar to mine.
As I said at the outset, I am not absolutely convinced-there may be some flaw in my reasoning which I have overlooked but with my present knowledge and experience, I am inclined to believe that scientific palmistry, or the study of the character from the hand, is not without some foundation.
ROBERT C. AsTROP.
Coal, grimy coal, scurrying down to the sea. It sings a song as it whirls along
The humming sails, to me.
It sings to the sweat frothed miner in the bleak, black night of the mines: It sings of the swing of the crane - beams and the hoarsened groan of the lines
As the great black ships lie waiting
At the great black, sooty goal
A 'stewing and a 'steaming
And a 'looking out for coal.
Coal, fairy coal, hurrying down to the sea.
It tells a tale as it skims the rail
An epic tale to me.
It tells of the shivering mother with her food-crazed, hungry boy, Somewhere waiting, with gaunt eyes waiting, its cheerful crackling joy
And the good warm flames a'leaping
In the big broad fire-place
And the ruddy glow reflecting In the wan and haggard face.
Coal, magic coal, self-driven down to the sea, It sounds a call, appealing to all; A call that comes to me.
It calls to the big, mute factories with their great broad hungry maws:
It starts wheels whirring, with witchery stirring; it fills those f amined jaws: It lights the big busy cities
It builds the far-flung walls
It bridges majestic oceans
It cheers a myriad halls.
Coal, witches coal, rushing west to the sea, It dips its brush in its onward rush; It paints a picture for me
Of the peace blessed cozy firesides and the happy f amilies there;
Of new lovers' thrilling, and old lovers' thrilling; banishes thoughts of care.
Dash on, grim, grimy sorcerer
To the giant task of your hands
To the Titanic labor awaiting Slave-master of many lands.
H. P. WHITE, '23.
Nonsense is rarely thought of except in its relation to court jesters and to vaudeville artists. When we think of nonsense as anything which is contrary to established fact and counter to best reasoning and theory, we shall find that nonsense has a tremendous influence on the human race and has been the moving force of all development in world progress. Since the time when Adam listened to the nonsense of Eve, ate the forbidden fruit, was driven from the garden and made a son of toil, just so long has the progress of mankind been directed by the influence of nonsense.
History testifies to the marvelous power of nonsense. Noah was laughed at and reviled when he warned his generation of the impending flood. The people about him declared the flood idea ridiculous. They were unconvinced. It required years of patience and labor for Noah to vindicate his position. When he- accomplished that end the sons of Adam saw nonsense transformed to fact, an event which leads me to observe that nonsense is entirely in the thinking of the individual. The flood to them was nonsense; to Moses it was a stern reality. Thus in the day of the flood the progeny of the race was selected.
The little Italian lad who in the fifteenth century took issue with the geologers of his day and proclaimed the earth to be spherical, was a subject of jest and ridicule. Yet, he persevered in his nonsense and caused a new continent to be discovered, making 1492 a year of world importance. That which seemed absurd, ridiculous and impossible to the wisacres of Columbus' day was
to Columbus an obsession which was as real as if already accomplished. Here, nonsense led the old world into the light of the new world.
Much of the progress in science and in invention has been brought about by nonsense. Robert Fulton was called a crank when he proposed a steam propelled boat. The spacious ocean-going liners of today are wonderful monuments to the efficacy of Fulton's nonsense. Flying had been made the subject of jest in many witty poems. The "Icarus" of the twentieth century was called fanatic and impossible. In spite of the derision heaped upon the idea, Oville Wright proved to an astonished world that heavier-than-air flying was an accomplished fact. The American Darius Green had come to stay. Nonsense is not always nonsense. It changes constantly. That which is absurd, unreasonable and seemingly impossible today may be a part of the world's knowledge tomorrow. To say the earth is round was nonsense before Columbus. Today, to say it is not round is nonsense of a deeper vein. The man who talked transAtlantic flying twenty-five years ago would have found a warm welcome at a state institution, yet no one felt particularly upset when the headlines announced the feat accomplished. The world awaits serenely further developments in the same direction.
When the possibility of communication through the medium of ether waves was demonstrated, yet another subject of poets and wierd writers was brought into the day light of reality and today "radio" is the first, if not the last word in means of communication. The end is not yet in sight and with the farmer wife of the Middle West soothing her baby to sleep with a New York City concert, we can see the day not far distant when the Chinese coolie will "stick" his rice to the rythm of the same symphony.
Nonsense changes with the seasons and varies with climatic conditions. Thus it would appear sheer nonsense for one to walk the ice pavements of Alaska with the summer Palm Beach which the tropics demand. Likewise one would be termed the chief of nuts, if he wore skins and furs while visiting in Panama. The city never speaks to anyone except acquaintances in passing, though he sees hundreds daily. The countryman not only speaks to all he meets, but is often very inquisitive as to who you are, where you are going and what your business is. He calls the city man prudish and proud and his city brother brands him green and crude at the very same time. Too points of view, both right and both wrong, and each one nonsense in the eyes of the other. Again, a person wears straws and fans away the heat in the summer and when winter comes the same person discards the straws and fans, dons felts and woolens and would carry heated bricks in his vest pockets if he could. Straws and Palm Beaches which are very necessary to comfort in summer appear nonsensical when nature puts on winter's garb. Thus changes the world's nonsense with the world's point of view and with the condition which affect that point of view.
In the last place, there is a class of nonsense which ever remains the -same. It is as fixedly nonsense as is the law of gravity. Its character is not changed by outside forces. Indeed, it almost meets the physicist's definition of a true solid. It is nonsense to argue with a bear. He understands brute focce only and plenty of it, too. To deal with a bear one must meet him on the basis of his understanding. Sheer folly it is to implore a mad dog not to bite. A surer means to his understanding is a club well handled. One must command the fiery horse with a bit of steel and not with a curb of soft words. The
"last word" is woman's inalienable right. Man is foolish to think that he will ever speak finally on any question. All these bits of human frailties are in the last analysis, but nonsense. He who lives this life without having been influenced and swayed by nonsense is not human. He who has failed to benefit by nonsense has failed to live this life successfully.
Nonsense is the world's "funny bone." It fills an essential need at all times. We feel its presence only when it has been struck. We usually feel better and wiser after the hurting is over.
PAR JEAN VAL}EAN.
La jolie dame, laquelle j' adore, Elle al' esprit, beau comme le corps; Et avec taus, elle est si chere Dans son absence, je ne sais quet faire .
Quand elle me donne un regard riant, Pendant que je suis tout amant; Alors, je ne p11tisvoir ses yeux, Si clairs, si tranquilles, et si bleus.
Sa bouche si charmante, me transporte, Les anges ne parlent pas de telle sorte; Sa voix est si melodieux, Son ame si douse et comme je le veux. , , ,,
The facts surrounding the demise of the late Duke of Burgundy are so full of tragedy and so rife with mystery and death that, as I view them in the retrospect, I scarce can credit my memory, though corroborated by a thousand eye-witnesses of that bizarre occasion. His death took place in the midst of the celebration of the anniversary of his accession to the duchy and just as the old year went out and the new year came in and the circumstances of it struck terror to the souls of the vast assembly convened to do the Duke honor and to watch in the New Year. The death occurred in that vast and spacious hall known before as La Salon de la Joie and known since as La Salon de la Mart. It transpired in the presence of all the Duke's relations by consanguinity and affinity and before a thousand men who called themselves his friends. It came at the midnight hour when the cathedral clock clanged twelve and every heart was gay save his. I repeat, every heart was gay save his and his was borne down upon by a thousand, yet, a million fearful sins and unspeakable crimes as black as a moonless midnight. Some have whispered that he died of remorse. Be that as it may, he could have died of remorse if death comes in that form, for no man could recount a good deed and every man could recount a hundred misdeeds committed in the flesh by Henri, Duke of Burgundy. Every window of the Chateau de Camprines sparkled like a jewel in the night. Every room bore its tribute to revelry save the grim dungeon beneath the castle. From the castellated ramparts to the tarn that washed the moss of its base the old castle glittered like a gala queen.
Strains of music and merry laughter, sometimes half suppressed, stole forth. The great feast was over. There was going to and fro and motion and love and song and the assemblage of guests made ready for the dance, the greatest dance of the age, the greatest ball of a century. So said the Duke as he laughed until the floor shook. "In ·celebration of the New Year and especially in commemoration of my accession to the Duchy of Burgundy," he said. And so the Ethiopian servitors ran hither and yon with trays of the finest wines the earth could afford; wines as red and deep and rich as the blood which the ·Duke had of ten times spilled. Gaiety was king and a half suppressed merriment ran through the ancient chateau like a chill.
At last every guest was in the grand salon, the Salon de la Joie. A hundred great candelabra with scintillating and spangled cut-glass pendants shed a lustre over the immense ball room. The room, or rather the hall with its gigantic pillars of Doric architecture supporting its arched and entablatured ceiling, was unusually magnificent; large enough for a thousand guests to dance without hinderance one to the other. The floor was of Mosaic tiling as sleek apparently as glass and innumerable variegated colors were employed by the artizans who have created it in fashioning the wildest arabesque designs that shone like crystal beneath the heels of the guests. Here and there massive columns of purest marble upheld the roof and upon the abacus of each was graven the armorial bearings of Burgundy. At one side of the salon and leading down from a spacious balcony where grew a myriad of palms was the grand stairway as broad as a river which held out its arms to the company assembled and added a grandeur and charm to the room, if a compartment of such spacious dimensions may be designated as
a room. On every side, save where an emblazoned doorway of bronze showed itself, the walls were hidden beneath purple draperies and tapestries of the richest most Oriental designs. In the midst of these, there depended by a golden cord a great portrait; a work in oil by Van Dye. And the portrait portrayed the features of the Duke of Burgundy, father of Henri, and known to all men as "The Beloved." It portrayed him sitting calmly in his chair of the Duchy of Burgundy gazing serenely out over the scene with an expression of benignity and goodness that hushed the bacchanalian laughter and tempered the festive manner. It was this portrait with its eye of cold steel and its expression of peace which was the reigning spirit of the scene.
At half past ten the Duke, son of "The Beloved," stood upon the stairway and ordered wine to be served to every mortal present. There was a suppressed murmur, a sinister restlessness, a strange hesitancy, a peculiar agitation which was scarcely perceptible but which swept like a ripple through the concourse. No one knew whom the Duke would poison next.
Wine having been served, the Duke requested the curate, Pere Lechamp, to drink a toast. The costume of the priest, as he advanced to do the Duke's bidding, showed in strange contrast with the attire of the brilliantly bedecked guests, for he was clothed in sombre cowl and gown and he wore sandals and the light from the myriad of candles glistened upon his shorn pate. He mounted the stairway. He stood above every man in the hall, for he had gone a step farther up the stairway than that step upon which stood Henri, Duke of Burgundy. A queer flutter ran over the multitude as if it were one person and that person had shuddered out of sheer terror. Pere Lechamp raised aloft his glass of blood red claret and in a deep toned voice, said :
"My friends, I drink to the Duke of Burgundy." He paused to clear his throat and continued, "Not to Him who stands near me, but to him whose portrait hangs yonder," and he pointed a long finger to the one portrait in the chamber, that of "The Beloved," "To him who was Duke of Burgundy. To him whom fate or fortune or foul play robbed of the Duchy. I drink to him who was, who is the rightful Duke of Burgundy. I drink to Duke Henry, the Beloved."
Some had forgotten the rumor. Others had heard it whispered of late , still others had heard it gossiped ·with bated breath that very night that the young Duke of Burgundy had murdered his father or that he had had him abducted that he himself might come into the Duchy.
The toast of the curate came like a thunder clap . Every w ord rang out over the hall. Every word seemed to cut like a scimitar into the heart of the young- Duke Henri , and into the souls of the listening assemblage.
At the conclusion of the toast, the priest raised the glass, but Henri struck it from his hand with a mighty blow. It fell to the marble steps of the stairway and it rang like a tiny bell as it shattered into a thousand pieces which glittered and shone like jewels amidst the split wine ·which looked like red blood. In the moment of awful silence which followed, every eye gazed on the sparkling glass and beheld that the fragments had fall en and arranged themselves so that they had fashioned on the marble stairway in the blood red wine the one word, "Death."
At a gesture from the Duke two armored soldiers advanced and seized the curate by the arms and took him from the presence of the multitude while the Duke white with wrath and struck speechless with awe seemed to read again and again to himself the one word writ by the fragments of glass and that word was, "Death."
It was some time ere the revellers recovered from the impression made by this scene. Long after the glass had been cleared away and the music had recommenced and the Duke had smiled again, the guests stood speechless from sheer terror. But this intense period of silence in which there was no sound, was broken at last. And when it was broken every guest quaked with horror, for the sound which broke the silence was a groan. From somewhere within the bowels of that castle a muffled groan, a groan of intense agony, was heard and every soul present knew that Pere Lechamp was being tortured. Now this sound added to the terror of the guests and it seemed as if they would never grow gay again and it appeared as if they would never resume the festivities. A queer sort of restraint mastered every one of them. They could not be persuaded to resume the dance though ordered to do so by the Duke, who shouted to them in such a thunderous voice that the candles in their sockets quivered.
However, after a long time had elapsed, and after much wine had been drunk and the music had grown lighter, the guests recovered and the dance began again. However, never with the same gay spirit, for some great happening; some strange mystery , hovered over that vast hall and every mortal there assembled felt its force. The dance went on and the music swept here and there as if in joy. Towards midnight liveried pages entered and lighted the golden censers that swung here and there in the great salon. There was exhaled from these a strange, faint , sensuous odor, as of Faryland, which added to the zest of the dance.
But it was a long time before the guests assembled noticed that an unusually large number of men were leaving the hall. Without warning to his partner in the dance
ever and again a soldier would leave the room until many knights one by one had suddenly excused themselves for a moment and had gone out. At last, the Duke noted this with a black look and a hiss through his teeth and at last he transfixed at every man who left the company a stare so murderous that the friends of those who had absented themselves shuddered.
And then the time was near unto midnight. As was the custom, at a sign from the Duke, every instrument was hushed and every dancer stopped suddenly. No sound could be heard save the deep breathing of the dancers and the measured tock of the great stairway clock. At last, without warning, the clock began to clang the hour of twelve [ While every ear was strained to hear the old clock send out the Old Year and herald in the New Year, from somewhere in the depths of the old castle there came a dull, jarring thud. It echoed along the castle wall and reverberated in the tarn without.
It was at about this instant that the Duke rushed to his sister's side. She was the Countess of Hardimont and she stood wide-eyed as she leaned upon the arm of her husband. The Duke shrieked a blood-curdling shriek that pierced sickeningly the ear of every one present and shrilled in echo among the arches and entablatures of the lofty ceiling. He threw himself upon his knees and, if terror were ever writ upon the face of mortal man, it was writ there. His eyes became fixed in a glazed stare; his finger pointed in a single direction; every feature of his face drew up in horror; he tried again and again to swallow and seemed unable to do so. Something seemed to choke him. Everybody gazed intently upon his hideous face. He was, I believe, speechless, or if speech he uttered it was the incoherent mutterings of a mad-man. He remained upon his knees; his teeth chattering together 1~1
( Continued on page 58)
JULIET WOODSON, '22
Three or four-maybe half a dozen times a year our mother takes a little trip. Usually our father goes with her, but now and then Aunt Carol sends for her with a "she-needs-a-change" plea. Mother protests, with an air peculiar to all mothers, that the family will go to ruin if she leaves; that she doesn't need a change, that it i s impossible to go while we are without a cook , and that a week is too long to be away.
But we pack her off with her fluttering good-byes and her parting injunctions. Our father tweaks our ear with a cherry, " Oh, we'll manage somehow! Eh, sister? " And, with an assumed air of sprightliness, he claps on his hat, seizes mother's bag, and hustles her down to the station-a pleasure which he claims as jeasously as he did-well-twenty-two years ago.
We go immediately from the porch to the kitchen , for we have no illusions in regard to our culinary accomplishments, and we have depressing memories of past attempts. We remember that steak and onions is our father's favorite dish . We begin on the onions tearfully.
Our preparations are not so rapid as they should be. Our youngest brother comes in slowly, grasping a lacerated left hand with a grimy right. White-lipped, but resigned, heroic but terrofied, he announces that he has stuck a rusty nail through his thumb. He wants to know how soon death occurs from blood poisoning. We are appalled. In all of our experience we have had nothing that enables us to cope with this. We rush to the telephone and summon the doctor ; we bandage the wounded
member; we break the news to our fa th er-and we sniff the faint, increasing odor of burnt biscuit!
The week passes with incredible slowness. Our father wanders about the house in a vague and aimless fashion. We conclude that our conversation is lackingthe necessary depth to entertain, and-though we cannot seem to remember our mother ever doing it-we decide to talk in weightive terms. We cull three Latin phrases from the back part of the dictionary and memorize them. But we find that, in spite of long and hard thinking , they are not able to be introduced into our natural conversation. So we chatter, in what we fancy is a delightful fashion, of the coming election and the world series, of the peace conference and fashions in pipes. And all the while we look ahead morosely to six days of dish-washing and dusting and wonder how our mother stands it.
Our older brother writes, asking that we send his tennis racket to him at once. We begin a weary search, and on the third day we find it-utterly useless without new stringing. The painters come to fix the porch, but we have heard of so many robberies and murders that we fear that they are bandits in disguise, and we send them away grumbling and vindictive. We try to keep an eye on the youngest brother, but we give up in despair, with an awful premonition that we are bordering- on insanity.
And then our mother writes that she is coming-! We prepare-not without misgivings-the fatted calf. We keep the youngest brother out of the way of rusty nails. We see with joy how our father brightens up as he goes down to meet the train.
We watch our mother as she comes from the car. We rush out and grab her in great bear-hugs. We tell her how smoothly we have run everything. Our father
tweaks our ear once more in a congratulatory fashion. And then-also for the fatted calf-the odor of burnt biscuits calls us in.
Coming home to one's mother, we grant, is a wonderful sensation. We revel in it; and we thoroug-hly appreciate the Him-went-Home-to-Him's-Muvver-happiness. But just at this moment-perhaps because of its rareness-we think that even better than this is the blessed joy of Rim's Muvver Coming Home to Him I
(Continued from page 55)
his head; his lips drawn back from them like a wounded animal at bay. It was a sight awful to behold. His eyes bulged from their sockets. He doubled up his arm and hid his eyes with it. At last, he seemed to be seized with a spasm. He writhed and twisted as if he were in torment. The muscles of his face twitched spasmodically. Saliva drivelled from the corners of his vicious mouth. At last his eyes glazed. He pointed his finger towards the stairway. He gurgled with the death rattle deep in his throat; he tried to speak; his voice was a hissing whisper. He seemed to try to shout and in the terrible effort that he made, every ear in the assemblage heard the one piercing word that he said. In a whisper like the scream of the wind, he enunciated the one word, "Look!" and with a wild demoniacal laugh, he expired. Every eye turned towards the grand stairway where the Duke had pointed with trembling finger. Standing upon one of the marble steps half way down th'e stairs, clothed in dungeon garb, they beheld the emaciated figure of Duke Henri of Burgundy, the Beloved.
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. Crenshaw, 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 Hull 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 vVear, 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, Tem'ple & Co., Dry Goods, 101 W. Broad St.
The Freed Co., Women's Ready 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.
Goode'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 Reddy 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. Lathrop & 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 Lewitt 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., Jewelers, 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 Sons, 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. Rathert 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. Steiff, 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, 207 N. Sycamore St. Tyler and Ryan, Coal, 1001 W. Cary St.
Ullman Bros., Grocers, 1215 Hull St.
Chas. W. Vaughan, Hardware, 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 Shop, 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.