MSGR_1924v50n5 by UR Scholarship Repository

MESSENGER

February, 1924

INCLUDES

Richmond College, a College of Liberal Arts for Men. Westhampton College, a College of Liberal Arts for Women.

The T. C. Williams School of Law, a Professional School of Law, offering the Degree of LL. B. i 4. The Summer School. W. L. Prince, M.A., Director.

: 1 1

IRichmond College for Men

W. L. PRINCE , M. A ., DEAN

Richmond College for Men is an old and well-endowed College of Liberal Arts, which is recognized everywhere as a Standard American College. Its degrees are accepted at face value in the great graduate and technical schools of America. Its alumni are so widely scattered through the nation that the new graduate immediately joins a large and friendly group of men holding positions of power and influence . The College occupies modern and well-equipped buildings, on a beautiful campus of 150 acres in the western suburbs of Richmond.

Westhampton College

MAY LANSFIELD KELLER , PH. D., DEAN

Westhampton College for Women, co-ordin a te with Richmond College for Men, is housed in handsome buildings on a campus of 140 acres, separated from the Richmond College campus by a beautiful lake of about nine acres. All degrees are given by the University of Richmond, and those conferred on women are, in all respects, equivalent to those conferred on men. While the two institutions are co-ordinate, they are not co-educational.

The T. C. Williams School of Law

H BARNETT, JR., LL B.,

SECRETARY

Three years required for degree of LL. B. in the Morning Division, four years in the Evening Division. Strong faculty of

J seven professors. - Large Library. Moderate Fees. Open to both Men and Women. Students who so desire can work their way. • i ----- i i

For catalogue, booklet, or views, or other information concern- ! ! ing entrance into any College, address the Dean or Secretary. j 1 F. W. BOATWRIGHT - President i I i

~bitorial

Yearning for that breadth of reading and concept which enables one to discuss peacefully the latest books to hand on one's table, we surrender in humility to generalities, which, whatever may be their faults, are fairly safe.

The Situation Casting about for some tender verse from In General collegiate typewriters, we remain unmoved and recall that perhaps after all we might not be able to understand those willy-nilly wanderings of the Broom and Dial, and therefore could not qualify as a critic of !if e, literature, et als. But still at the same time

To localize a moment: we find it surprising, in view of the time spent in discussion of the various principles of composition, that so few persons find time to produce anything of what is called creative writing. For every person who honestly tries to put words together in the form of paragraph or verse according to some individual conscious or unconscious utilization of principles of literary composition, there seem to be dozens who simply have the "urge" to literature.

Students in the University of Richmond have been at various times urged to contribute to THE MESSENGER,but for one reason or another have in general chosen to leave its destiny to a small group of enthusiasts who may or may not be the best talent of the University. Certain clear-eyed ladies residing in cloistered sanctuaries of learning where art is art and all else is clowning have made haste to concur in the opinion that the writings in this magazine are not the word etchings of Joseph Conrad.

Active members of organizations paradoxically called "literary societies" have within the last few years produced virtually nothing for this magazine. It is one thing to comment with seeming intelligence on the tremendous soul-sadness of the Russians; it is doubtless no small thing to know why Sherwood Anderson's heroines wander out into the night and want to know why. But it seems something else to grind out copy for a magazine.

THE MESSENGER

To those kind hearted but "literary" reviewers of collegiate publications who affirm the obvious and make such astounding discoveries as the fact that horried slang has been unblushingly printed on these pages, we paraphrase Floyd Dell to the extent of saying: one writes what one can and prints what one can get.

All is not right with the world, but there is still evidence that "kind hearts are more than coronets." Marguerite Wilkinson, in the January Bookman, has the honor of being the first since Mr. Cabell to say a good word for pawnbrokers . She says:

God bless pawnbrokers! They are quiet men. You may go onceYou may go againThey do not question As a brother might; They never say What they think is right. They never hint All you ought to know; Lay your treasure down, Take your cash and go, Fold your ticket up In a secret place

With your shaken pride and your shy disgrace, Take the burly world by the throat againGod bless pawnbrokers ! They are silent men.

In The Eliot, a monthly magazine published at Washington University, St. Louis, H. E. Douglass risks his immortal soul by dealing tolerantly with H. L. Mencken in a discussion of The American Mercury, the new magazine dedicated to "the forgotten man -that is, the moral, educated, well-disposed, unfrenzied enlightened citizen of the middle minority." Mencken and his cohort, George Jean Nathan, in their old days were taken as the guiding stars for what was and is called the Young Intellectual and now,

the reviewer asserts, the critics have laid aside some of what were called smart-alee traits without forswearing their policy and pet diversion of baiting the "boobus americanus."

While feeling the pangs of regret that the younger of the cognoscenti are being led into an honestly good magazine, we find quoted in the Nassau Literary Magazine (Princeton) Robert Nathan's thought:

Man grows up In quietness , As he grows older He talks less.

When he is old He sits among Gray grandfathers And holds his tongue.

I'd rather sit By a wine shelf And tell people About myself.

After all, then, why apologize for youth? It is pleasant and it is hopeful and it offends our elders, who are wiser than we. No matter. Spring will be soon upon us and we can recline among the pine and perhaps think of something from the misty land of castles grey.

JLift' s J!octurnt

Lend me thy youth; the castle walls Are dimmed before my eye. A shadow falls in the stately ha!Js, The knights and the ladies die.

Lend me thy youth; the music moans And whimpers its deathly lore. A dirge now drones in the violin tones And groans in the ocean' s roar.

Lend me thy youth; the sunset fades; The fragrance fails the flowers ; The mystery fades from the woodland glades And swoons in the mystic bowers.

Lend me thy youth; the stars are dim; There ' s grey in the moonlit sky. The sun is grim on the dun sea's rim; The shadows haunt my eye.

Lend me thy youth; at eventide: The gaudy tinsels pa.leWe lose the stride in the hectic rideWe faint; we falter; we fail.

l\itbmonb' s ~en ~est ~oohs: t,rotest

A. B. CLARKE

Some time during the last of August, 1923, the Richmond News Leader began publishing daily one list of ten books bearing the title, "The Ten Books I Have Most Enjoyed," and furnished by some noteworthy citizen. Locally, the repeated practice of publishing these lists took on the appearance of a mild contest, and many persons seized the occasion to comment on the choices made. In the course of time eighty lists were published, and the results formed the subject for an editorial article appearing about the first of December in the usual columns. Dr. Freeman declares: "Choices ranked frankly from Mother Goose and Nick Carter to Bergson's Creatilve Evolution and Kant's Critique of Pure Reason. Two hundred and ninety-eight books were given only one in choice and one hundred and twenty-two books were selected twice or more than twice.

"The ten books that stood at the head of the list, with the number of individual preferences for each of them, are as follows:

"(1) Scott's Ivanhoe (25); (2) Hugo's Les Miserables (19); (3) Dumas' Three Musketeers (18); (4) Dickens' David Copperfield ( 16) ; ( 5) Defoe's Robinson Crusoe ( 15) ; ( 6) Henderson's Stonewall Jackson (12); (7) Stevenson's Treasure Island (11); (8) The Bible (10); (9) Beveridge'sfohnMarshall (10); (10) Shakespeare's Hamlet. Dickens and Scott were Richmond's favorite authors, followed by Shakespeare and Dumas."

After reading Dr. Freeman's editorial article on the eighty lists, I was very decidedly disappointed since it is obvious that with the exception of Beveridge, the entire list might have been compiled twenty years ago. The thought of the inteUectual resources of our city thus displayed in its reading sent me to turning over those lists which I have faithfully cut from the daily paper and kept in reach for the purpose of finding new books. As I read the clippings the titles which caught my eye were these:

Turning Points in Successful Careers, Looking Backward, She, Ten Thousand a Year, Story of the Atlantic Cable, The Great Impersonation, Under Two F,lags, Self Help, Is Davis a Traitor? Quiet Talks, Miss Nobody From Nowhere, The Rubaiyat, Major Jones' Courtship Diddle, Dumps and Tot, Stepping Heavenward, How to Be Happy, Thelma, Crumbs Swept Up, St. Elmo, Horatio Alger's {(Works," The Little Shepherd of Kingdom Come, Come Forth, Heart of Steel.

Whereupon I felt some despair and began to ask myself who might be these savants whose wisdom expressed itself in determining Richmond's Ten Best Books. The results of my personal investigation are very frankly these :

Ten women submitted lists. This number (ten), I understand to be the relative position intellectual women occupy in Richmond compared with seventy men. It is unfortunate that we boast of so few. Even when compared with the entire number of lists a woman submitted the weakest. I have been told that no effort was made by The News Leader to advertise the absence of intelligence, among our citizens, because several people have been known to carry our newspapers out of the city, and while there is no harm done in having it remain a local secret, the outside world of Zion City and Mexico need not smile over a display of tepid intellectualism. But the list in question was signed by a woman and ran thus:

The Friendly Year, Henry Van Dyke; Stepping Heavenward, Prentiss; Language and Poetry of Flowers, compiled edition; How to Be Happy, Purinton; Thelma, Marie Corelli; Reveries of a Bachelor, Ike Marvel; Crumbs Swept Up, Talmadge; The Mothers' Book, Burrell; St. Elmo, Evans; The Trail of the Lonesome Pine, Fox.

Let it be understood that I do not say the lady, whose name I will give on request, should have declared that she enjoyed other books than these; but I raise the question whether such obvious a display of sickening mush and sentimentalism should rightfully merit a place among Richmond's intellectuals?

Some difference is to be noted among the other nine women, who named, generously: Little Women, Life of Florence Night-

ingale, Lorna Doane, Jane Eyre, Elizabeth and Her German Garden, Tess, Lucille, and David Copperfield, - all typically and perhaps very excellently feminine, even to David Copperfield. But the women of Richmond who are our intellectuals did not apparently care for poetry. Aside from Shakespeare ( who is seldom read from the purely poetical point of view) -named five timesthe poets given places are: Poe, Leigh Hunt's compilation with Spenser, Keats and Shelley mentioned, Owen Meredith (Lucile), Tom Moore, Longfellow, Emily Dickenson, Amy Lowell ( Can Grande's Castle . ) Please notice that Byron, Tennyson and Browning were entirely omitted. The Bible was mentioned three times, and fiction predominated over any other kind of literature. Certain books which have had the stain of disapproval on them at some time or other forced their way in: William James' Psychology, LeConte's Elements of Geology, Spencer's First Principles, Darwin's Voyage of the Beagle, and most surprising of all Cabell's Jurgen.

The men, who are said to represent Richmond intellectually, I have divided into eight groups in order to treat them with more justice, each according to his kind : Business men ( 14), preachers ( 14), lawyers ( 20), educators ( 8), physicians ( 8), technical men ( 3), writers (2), artists ( 1).

From this list of seventy "brainy" men, there are seven valiant contenders for the weakest list ; the honors being divided between two physicians, three preachers, one educator and a so-called historian, who declares that there is nothing "high brow" in his list. The mediocrity of these lists is such that it is difficult to decide which contains the most drivel, just as it is not easy to say which is worse, When Knighthood Was in Flower or Self flelp. Each of the seven lists is "saved" in each case by one good substantial volume; however, the most wishy-washy list belongs to a physician on the conclusion that Beveridge's Life of John Marshall is not the equal of Hugo's Les Miserables, the absence of which would give the booby-prize to one of the ministers. The winning list includes:

Huck Finn, Scottish Chiefs, Days of Bruce, Prisoner of Zenda, When Knighthood Was In Flower, Miss Nobody From Nowhere,

THE MESSENGER

Two Little Confederates, Garland's Life of John Randolph, Beveridge's Life of John Marshall, Quo Vadis.

One of our business men deserves honorable mention in the matter of pusillanimity since he ingenuously confesses to the following list :

Little Minister, Americanization of Edward Bok , 0. Henry, Soldiers of Fortune, Treasure Island , Prisoner of Zenda, Quo Vadis, Three Musketeers, Tom Sawy er, Sherlock Holm es.

The business men of the city who were requested to make this disclosure of their reading likewise gave characteristic lists. They probably did most of their reading when very young, and afterwards, when incomes became $10,000 and more a year they found sufficient leisure to peruse more mature work. This accounts for the presence of the Jungle Book, the Rubaiyat, Ivanhoe, and Dickens on one hand, and The Ring and the Book, Carlyle's French Revolution and Sartor Resartus, and Gogol's Dead Souls on the other. Fiction predominates for the business man's library, as shown by the fourteen lists: 74 books were fiction, 43 biographical and historical, 13 were collections of an essay nature. The Bible was mentioned three times. Men who "do things" in this world have little love for poetry; few men ever have. Our financial magnates named Burns three times, Browning once (Ring and the Book, mirabile dictu!) and the Rubaiyat once. The amount of biography is relatively large and perhaps occupies the greater of the later reading of those in this category. Walter Page and John Marshall, with a patriotic turning to Jackson, figure in most lists. No biography of Lincoln was mentioned. On the whole the best that can be said 1 for the reading of our business men is that it is drably sound. With the possible exception of Hugh Miller's Testimony of the Rocks, there is assuredly no other volume to offend the notions of any of these gentlemen's neighbors.

Only three technical men were requested to furnish lists ; and from two civil engineers and one architect, we gather that there is a greater desire for fiction and less of biography and poetry than in the preceding group. It is a fairly well established fact that technically trained minds make good business heads -and possibly

there should have been no differentiation made. There is nothing in these thirty books to offend William J. Bryan or John S. Sumner.

The two writers -whose fame does not noticeably extend beyond their own titling -submitted lists containing Mary Johnston, Ouida, John Esten Cook, Page, Emerson, Palgrave and Rider Haggard. The presence of Shakespeare, Tolstoi and Benvenuto Cellini saves one from being subtitled a gentleman with spinster ideals.

The artist, a pianist, saved the day with Conrad and Dostoievski, the only time either of them was mentioned in the entire eighty lists.

In the consideration that medical men have been at some time college matriculates, it is disappointing to read the list they submitted. Fifty-four of the books named were fiction, ranging from N i ck Cart er to Pilgrims' Progress; sixteen were biographical or hi storical; seven were expo sitory prose, of which number only three were particularly scientific; poetry was mentioned once and then Bry a nt. The Bible was given two places out of a possible eight . It appears that doctors read fiction for enjoyment and occasionally biography or history in a small portion. The Life of Past eur, The Riddle of the Universe, and Origin of Species appear to be the only volumes which have a decided scientific atmsophere about them. 0 f course, the doctors are breaking the great law of living when they peruse Haeckel, Darwin, and Robinson's Mind In the Making; but no medical man has yet been guilty of much piety -he has not the time.

The result of the ministerial lists (fourteen) was almost anticipated. Eighty-two books were fiction, wherein Dickens and Scott were favorites; twenty-five were biographical or historical; twentysix were of essay nature; and twelve were of poetry; Tennyson was mentioned four times, Browning three, and the following once: Owen, John Saxe, Pope, Longfellow, Scott. Thirteen of the volumes counted under history and essay were strictly religious, thus showing that the ministerial profession is more inclined to enjoy books dealing its vocation than is the medical. Strange to

THE MESSENGER

say the Bible was mentioned in only three lists : once complete, once as John, twice in one list as Ruth and John. I daresay that if any of the gentlemen were asked the reason for this, they would answer that the Bible is assumed in all lists; which is not true; for, as I have noted above, to named parts of it and one stated that he assumed its presence, whereupon I immediately gave it first place in his list and struck out the last of the following ten. Three lists bore titles which have been at some time branded as heretical: Josiah Royce's Philosophy , Harry Em e rson Fosdick -mentioned twice, Kant's Critique , Bergson ' s Creative Evolut i on. Needless to say, the first, third, and fourth of these were in lists by preachers in our city who have a reputation for intelligence and breadth of mind. Here is an example of the weakest list : S'Wiss Family Robinson, Mother Goose, Les Miserables, I v anho e, My Novel, Domb ey and Son, David Copperfield, David Livingstone , Henry Drummond, Lorna Doane.

It was surprising to find the amount of fiction lawyers have read: from the twenty lists 110 books were fiction, fifty-nine biography and history, sixteen essay and eight poetry, wherein six poets were named: Arnold, Scott, Byron (twice), Tennyson (twice) , Burns , and an Anthology of English Verse , which may mean anything or nothing . The Bible was given five places, thus showing more conscious popularity than among the ministers ! The only heretical writer who was named was Darwin -and he with the Voyage of the Beagle . According to the observation of tabooed books, the ministers are more dangerous than our lawyers, but, then, lawyers were never known to be progressive mentally. Furthermore, the legal mind wandered between biography of political figures and fiction, which is called classic, as extremes; one list named ten novels wherein nothing written since 1860 appears ; and another names, among eight biographies and one book of essays, a single novel-and that is Oppenheim's Great Impersonation. On the whole the Richmond lawyers are just like the city : satisfied to read Dickens, Scott, Beveridge and Henderson, with an occasional peep at Longfellow, Tennyson and Burns; and give the impression of glass front bookcases in drafty "parlors," where 1880 editions of "the Classics" blankly stare at

you with their green and brown covers heavily embossed with gilt lettering.

Finally, we come to our educators, who are engaged in directing the mental growth of the youngsters in Richmond, as well as the older students in colleges and training schools. The results are disappointing: forty-five fiction, sixteen biography and history ( of which eight were furnished by two lists) ; thirteen, essays; five, poetry; Tennyson, Heine, Wordsworth, Palgrave, Stedman (American Anthology). The Bible was mentioned once in the eighty titles. Here is a list which was probably read twenty years ago, and of course we are at perfect liberty to infer that the gentleman who submitted it has not enjoyed reading anything as much as did these ten books when he encountered them some years ago:

Three Musketeers, 0. Henry, Green Mountain Boys, The Reckoning, Knights of the Cross, Tom Sawyer, Kenilworth, Drums of Jeopardy, Amateur Gentleman, Fisherman's Luck.

It does not seem to me that it should be much of a mental strain on the average person to see that intellectuality does not necessarily accompany such a list. With the exception of three or four of the above books ( any of which could be replaced by a thousand equally drab, and written thirty years ago) the educator above could have made out his "Best Ten" when he was twenty years old: a time when no one -not even The News Leaderwould have been guilty of calling him an intellectual fit to be examined for the books he enjoyed. The educators slipped in mentioning John Dewey and Francis Galton. Galton overthrew Catastrophism which is still preached by many of the ministers who hold pulpits in our city and who furnished The News Leader with lists of books; and John Dewey has been guilty of numerous heresies because he dared to defy the established order of pedagogical methods and departed from the faith of our fathers in most of his thinking. Aside from these two faux pas, the futures of our young people are safe, especially when teachers find supreme enjoyment in Xenophon's Memorabilia of Socrates, Scott's Ivanhoe, Tarklington's Penrod, and the Green Mountain Boys.

THE MESSENGER

And now, recapitulating, I wish to comment on the entire list of 800 books in the enjoyment of eighty Richmond intellectuals. The men and women who furnished these lists are good, substantial citizens, otherwise they would not have been asked to put up for public imitation and criticism examples of their thinking. If the test had not been exclusive and representative of the various intellectual vocations of our fair and noble city, then why were not traffic policemen, hotel clerks and shop girls consulted? There is no conceivable reason why we should not understand the men and women, who signed these lists to be those whom The News Leader, for one reason or another, believes to possess some intelligence. Many of the intellegenzia who are also good citizens to the extent of appearing in the newspapers at times, and voting quite dutifully, and perhaps possessing no small amount of world goods, -many of these, - were of necessity omitted. But I feel justified in assuming those who were requested to comply are to all chances representative of the cream of Richmo nd ' s brains. If so, then Richm ond is completely and grievously old fashioned : a conclusion, by the way, which is not at all surprising, when we consider many things.

Let us, for the moment, recall the lists of "Ten Best Books" published by The News Leader just before the Richmond lists began, and which were furnished by 130 national celebrities. In that summary Shakespeare received first place with 56 votes, while the Richmonders gave the immortal bard third place with 27 citations.

(1) Shakespeare ( 56) ; ( 2) Dickens ( 44) ; ( 3) The Bible (39); (4) Mark Twain (38); (5) Kipling (28); (6) Thackeray (24); (7) R. L. Stevenson (22); (8) H. G. Wells; (9) Alexandre Dumas (10) Lewis Ca~ol.

Richmond's lists of authors: (1) Dickens ( 42) ; ( 2) Scott (35); (3) Shakespeare (27); (4) Dumas (20); (5) Hugo (20); ( 6) Mark Twain; ( 7) Defoe; ( 8) Stevenson; ( 9) Thackeray (10) Henderson (Life of Jackson).

As one can readily see there is some similarity. In the case of the Bible, Richmonders are disappointing, since they lisited it ten

times to the Nationals' thirty-nine. Wells was mentioned in the local line-up once and then for Mr. Britling Sees It Through; his Outline of History was not mentioned at all. Kipling was eighteenth in the local list and fifth in the national. Of Richmond's list Beveridge's Marshall, Henderson's Jackson and Stevenson's Treasure Island - alone were written within the last fifty years. Richmond is intellectually well-grounded if holding to the past is any sign of superior mentality!

But it is not so much the best ten books or the best ten authors which Richmond chose; rather, it is the paucity of reading done by the Richmonders. Their eight hundred titles produced 420 separate books, while the 1300 titles in the national list comprised 1,000 separate books. Our local bibliophiles are not very wide readers. For instance, Richmonders entirely omitted many books which found places in the national list. No modern poets are read with enjoyment in Richmond except Amy Lowell (mentioned once) ; contemporary novelists suffered the same fate: for Cabell received one vote; Edith Wharton none, Galsworthy none, Anatole France none, Arnold Bennett none, Lawrence, Sherwood, Anderson, Dreiser, Turgeniev, Schnitzler, Hauptmann -all none, Conrad one, Tolstoi one, Dostoievsky one (given seventeenth place in national books), Hudson none, and the English women novelists none. John Masefield was not mentioned by Richmonders. Keats received twelfth place in the national list, but as such was not mentioned by Richmonders. Romain Rolland is apparently unknown in Richmond, in spite of his tremendous work, Jean Chistrophe, and Shaw received one vote.

After all it matters little that Richmond caters so strongly to the sentimental and domestic classics, and that she read with great fervor the lives of local and sectional heroes. The reading of the eighty intellectuals is annoyingly decadent, however, just as is the patriotism which apparently inspires Southern audiences at theatres when anything from an underpaid female piano player to a symphony orchestra plays Dixie, and as the sentimentalism of a response to "Carry Me Back to Old Virginny": half-rate musicians receive great applause for thus soothing our local patriotism .and mush!

MESSENGER

I ask why some of our intellectual do not read something different from the rest; and instead of having people here who never get away from Dickens and Scott, I suggest that we maintain at public expense about three in every eighty of similar intellects,three, who would dare to say they enjoyed what they read in maturity and that: Nietzsche, James Joyce, George Moore, Oscar Wilde, Dunsaney, Swinburne, Isben, Melville, etc. No, this is not my list, but one sufficiently unorthodox to bring down the wrath of one who reads with riotous enjoyment Pilgrim ' s Progress, Quiet Talks, Stepping Heavenward, In Memoriam, Along the Trail of Friendly Years, and Paradise Lost. A little sauce for the goose is not unbecoming to civilized taste.

MARGARET HARLAN

To walk the earth beneath the same blue skies, To neither turn the head nor lift the eyes

Across the future spread of years and see A world in fancies of eternity, But to regard the ancient scheme of thingsA wall, against which beat the airy wings

Of dreaniers, who can neither change the plan , Nor guide the inborn nature of a man,A wondrous vessel of some earthy ore

Which, when once moulded, can be shaped no more. Can this be all, or can there be a way

To bring earth's strivings to a brighter day'! Man could not dream the perfect age so well Did not the power to achieve it in him dwell.

JMargotmbrJLion1!,tartrll

FARNHAM LAIDLAW

Little Margot turned the great key in the door of her postcard shop and stood staring up at the old ruin above her -at that old ruin which had been the pride of so many of her concierge ancestors. It was mess time for all those Americans in the village below and she would not have to show any more of the curious strangers from over the sea about the walls and donjons of her castle of Montrichard . At least for today her work was over.

Slowly pacing up the grassy path which led to the tower itself, she entered through the cracked Roman arch into a hollow, roofless space which had, since the time of Foulque le Noir, welcomed the old comtes d'Anjou, the kings of Angleterre, Philippe-Augu ste and Louis XI. Yet it was now but a patched up ruin of disintegrating sandstone, concreted here and there to stop the gnawing of time .

With a proprietary look about her as if in specting the place, Margot mounted the more recently constructed stairs which trailed in a steep spiral up one corner of the ruined hulk. She came at length to the top, where she stood holding out her arms to the caressing July breeze. Then she seated herself on the highest ledge of the wall.

Margot loved to sit here and look about her -at the small red tiled village directly below which stretched along between the river and the vine-covered hills-at that passive little river Cher which worried not at all about time-and away off across to the green fields which sloped up into miniature cotes, behind which cuddled such tiny hamlets as St. Julien and Faverolles. As far as she was concerned, this was her castle -her own view of simplicity and grandeur -her world ! And how she loved it.

The noise of mess-kits and boys' songs rose from the narrow streets below, and Margot looked down. Up the path far down by the gate came her little corporal. He of ten slipped off at this time of day and sat alone with her on the top of her world.

Margot waved at him. He saw her and hurried a bit faster. Taking the steps by threes, he was soon at her side.

"Some little climb, Margot, girl," he smiled breathlessly, stretching himself out along the concrete plastered wall.

"Take care -you will fall," cautioned the girl, pulling at his sleeve. "And you, of all people, I would not have it be that you were hurt ."

"Don't worry about me. Didn't I used to be water-boy when we built the Woolworth Building back home?" Margot failed to understand.

She looked worried. "But my father has told me that several of the Prussians fell from here."

"What do you mean, Prussians? Hasn't this always been France?" exclaimed the surprised American.

"Of course, you would not know," she explained. "In 1870, when France was at war with the Germans, their wretched soldiers entered Montrichard and stayed for many months. My father was concierge of the castle then, and could do nothing with them. They climbed all over the place -worse even than you Americans, and they, well, -look at that!" She pointed down into the hollow tower where grew a giant oak tree. Margot continued her explanation "The Prussians made their initials on that tree from the bottom to the very top, and even on the -what is it you say?the big branch which grows out of the little hole in the wall. It was a glorious tree then, but now it is dead."

The little corporal was much impressed. "And the Huns were really here in Montrichard ?"

"Yes, for months, and it was a sad time for our much loved France. My father has told me about it."

"But right here where I am sitting?" scowled the boy, doubting its possibility. "It hardly seems possible -but," he stopped as though remembering something, "we'll get them yet!" He started up into a sitting position and dangled his legs off into space. "You have heard that we leave tonight for the front?"

"Yes, I have heard," she said soberly.

"That was the reason I just had to come up and see you tonight, though I can't stay long. We have been such good friends that I-I almost hate to go."

They sat there silent for a few minutes, Margot gazing off at her dear Cher valley, a slight breeze catching at her soft brown hair, the little corporal looking down into her flushed tanned face with grave concern.

He put his hand over hers and determined to bring back the usual gay smile to her face.

"But I'll come back here on leave."

"Will you?" she smiled faintly. Again they were silent, till all at once, as if hoping to change the subject to a merrier one, he spoke, "But tell me, Margot, what is this funny little thing you always wear about your neck on that black cord ?"

Margot reached up to her throat and fingered lovingly something that looked like an ancient coin.

"This," she said, trying to swallow the lump that insisted upon stopping up her voice, "is a wonderful charm. It brings happiness and luck to the person who wears it. But I must tell you the story. Years ago-yes, centuries, -down in the donjon below us lay Richard Coeur de Lion of Angleterre. The town has been named for him, you see. He had been there for seven years. A great, great - how many greats I do not know - grandfather of mine was the keeper of the castle. One day while he was visiting the donjon he saw the king playing with this piece of old English money. Angry to think the guards had been so careless, he took the coin away from Richard. That night the good king escaped from his prison and they say that it was because he was rid of the coin."

"But how did that get the old king out of prison?" demanded the practical American.

"Oh, the coin had been blessed in the Holy Land, so it brought joy and luck, but it was said that if the owner desired some very great wish he must give it to someone he would never see again, and his wish would come true. Richard, wishing for freedom,

desired to lose the coin, so he played with it before the keeper, feeling sure it would be taken from him, and hoping not to see my great, great grandfather again before his wish could come true. He succeeded, and this coin has been with our family ever since that day-always worn by the concierge of the castle. That," she added as an after-thought, "is the reason I am so happy."

"Always happy?" questioned the little corporal.

"Well," sighed Margot, "I guess that it is becoming so old and worn that most of the blessing it got is rubbed off."

A bugle blew down below them.

"That means I've got to hurry. We'll be marching to the gare might soon now." And there at the top of her world, he kissed her. "Goodbye, little Margot, girl."

It was late October in Montrichard. The town had been stripped of its troops - troops which were being poured into those yawning gaps up front, and little Margot was lonesome.

She sat high up above the village in her sandstone nest, thinking, and watching the silent Cher flow lazily into the setting sun.

There was a whistle from below - a cry of joyful surpriseswift strides up the steps and her corporal-no, he was a sergeant now, - was beside her.

He put an arm about her - the other one was in a sling. Margot could hardly understand this. Finally with tears in her eyes she reached up about his neck with her two arms, and kissed his pale drawn face.

"And you did it for us," she cried, as they sat down together, his arm about her.

"For us?" he faltered, "yes, for us - that is, for you and me. You see, Margot, girl, I was always thinking of how the Boches were here in 1870, and I couldn't stand to feel that they might come again to make you miserable and to carve their - why, Margot!" He was looking down into the hollow square tower. "Margot, girl, where is the tree?"

THE MESSENGER

"Oh, it is so," she began and laughed. "You were gone a week -no, only five days, when God sent a storm and the -what is it? -the great light of the storm? -the lightning? -yes, the lightning knocked down the old dead Prussian tree. I said that night that is was good luck for France, and yes, the next morning the communique told us that the Americans had begun their great fight. Oh, it was wonderful -and all because of the tree."

The little sergeant smiled down at her and shook his head . "You sweet superstitious little witch."

Then his brow blackened as he looked at the girl more carefully. What was wrong with her? She had changed somehow. Yes, her face was paler, and her hands were rougher, but her dress was the same and her hair still waved in a dusky cloud about her face . But there was something else the boy could not quite locate. At last he realized.

"I knew I'd missed something about you, Margot, girl. It is the black cord and the funny coin. What have you done with it?"

Margot turned away slightly as she murmured, "I -I made a great big wish the night you went away, and the coin -I gave it to your captain at the station -and -and my wish has come true!"

"But you gave this charm away, Margot?"

"Surely, for if I kept it I could not have had my big, big wish."

It was quite dark when they spoke again.

"Say, it will be fierce pulling out for the front again when this fin gets better."

"Oh, you will not go back now. See!" she pointed to a dazzling star nearly straight above them. "That is the star of victory for France. You see, it flashes blue, white and red. The war is nearly over."

"Gosh, Margot," the boy laughed cheerily, pulling her into his arm, "No wonder we're winning this war !"

3Jnl.\dcm,cof I.lemonRum

LESLIE L. JONES

Why are they called rum runners! Those cases and kegs that line the Jersey shore, surely, cannot all contain rum. In fact, statistics tell us that very few of them do; a great deal less, say, than one-half of one per cent. What, then, do the rum runners run? The answer to this question depends upon the source of your information. The suave gentlemen engaged in the retail end of this colossal industry will assure you that those rakish craft in the offing ( twelve good nautical miles in the offing) are stacked to the gunwales with choicest gin, beer, rye, corn and Scotch whiskeys; all pre-war stuff, of course; bottled in bond, possessing an exquisite banquet, and of unquestionable potency. Your chemist, on the other hand, would probably submit a slightly different report, with vague and ominous mentionings of fusel oil, acetic acid, and wood alcohol.

Rum, then, is a minor item in the traffic off the Jersey Flats, and, yet, we persist in speaking of Rum Row and the Rum Fleet. Why is this? A hasty inspection of the question might incline us to consider it simply a matter of euphony, the result of man's inherent love for smooth, alliterative phrases: rum runners, Rum Row and (in the British Army) rum ration. And yet, from this point of view, why do we not have such melodic figures as Gin Garden, Scotch Street, or Brandy Boulevard! Or even so soothing an arrangement of syllables as The Ooast of Cognac, or Absinthe Alley? No, this thing goes deeper than phonetics, deeper, even, than comparative philology. It is a matter of pure prejudice; a prejudice not easily defended.

In the good old days of blue ribbons and temperance pledges (how proudly you signed the little white card after your first temperance lecture ! You were nine years old and possessed a signature of no mean distinction) in those far-off days, when the burly head of John Barleycorn was drooping beneath the tomahawk of Carrie Nation, to the shouts of the W. C. T. U. and the

picturesque, but unsanitary, fluttering of the Chataqua Salute; in those lost days, I say, what lone syllable symbolized in the American consciousness the entire tribe of alcoholic fluids? What single word was employed to express the deepest loathing, the greatest hatred, the utmost horror for all such unholy beverages? Rum! That was it - rum. Demon Rum! Aye, they called him Demon Rum. Nor can I tell you why. Was he more evil than his fellows? By no means. And yet were the sins of father, brother, and sister visited upon his head. His sonorous little name, in some unaccountable fashion, was chosen as the point of attack for the maledictions of a thirstless people. All the high crimes and misdemeanors which could be traced to the door of any form of alcohol were conveniently summed up as the ravages of Demon Rum. No other title carried so great a degree of opprobium. John Barleycorn was more or less a friendly, tolerant sort of greeting; while Booze belonged chiefly in the realm of comedy. But when Denton Rum was mentioned, no doubts were entertained as to just what was meant. This was the summum bonum of all alcoholic evil, and immediately found place in your mind alongside of Nero, Mephistopheles, and of late years, the Emperor William of Germany.

I make no defense of rum as against Coca-Colas, iced tea, or other such mild poisons. It is against his more deadly brethren that I prepare this brief. Of all strong drink, from the potent brew of Father Noah to the most recent concoction of synthetic gin, none has served mankind so faithfully as has rum - and none has been so shamefully wronged. For every keg of rum which has soothed man's woes, an ocean of whiskey, and brandy, and absinthe has burned human esophogii. And yet must rum, Demon Rum they call him, bear the odium of it all. Is this justice?

I am aware that much can be said against rum; in fact, I know that much has been said. On the other hand, however, there are a few things which can be said in its favor, and it is these things which I propose to note. For strangely enough, no one has ever had a kind word for rum. Whiskey we have tolerated for years, both as a capital remedy in case of snakebite, and as an indispensable aid in the treatment of influenza. But rum was pirates'

food, and, as such, banished from the family chest. Still, all this while, in the two noblest fields of human endeavor, rum -poor, outlawed rum -was doing a Trojan's work. "What," you exclaim, "the noblest endeavors of man?" Aye, the noblest endeavors of man -by the world's estimate, remember, not mine. It is of war I speak, and the going down to sea in ships.

On chill, breathless dawns, crouching tense upon the fire-step, looking out into the mist which hides the barb-wire -what is it the soldier needs? A cup of tepid cocoa from the hands of a "Y" secretary mincing down the buckboards? A couple of doughnuts from the pink fingers of a Salvation Army lass? No, I do not think so. It is rum he wants; and it is rum that Tommy Atkins gets. (Britain is a wise old lady.) A stiff, generous swig of burning rum that steals his breath away, so he can scarcely gasp, "Thank you, sir," as the lieutenant hurries down the trench. And after that it will not seem quite so lonely out there where the mist is nsmg where a certain Grim Harvester is lurking.

"But," you protest, "our fathers had no stimulant; so why should our sons need one?" Ah, but your fathers did have a stimulant. Many, many of them. And stouter allies than rum. For your fathers fought before ever the color was taken from battle. There were drums, then, and trumpets, and the comforting contact of fellowmen. Battalions marched as on parade, and the ranks dressed on the colors. The colors! What greater stimulus would you? And the roll of a heady drum! Did not that whip up the pulse? And the clear, thin call of a shrill bugle'! All these our fathers had; and, too, the mad drunkenness of charging cavalry.

But that was yesteryear. Today: a line of dismal ditches in a muddy field; no banners, no trumpets, no stirring rattle of an ass'es hide; monotony; grey, dull monotony; and loneliness. And when that thin line moves out at daybreak -ten long paces between each weary man -no flashing sabres clear the way: a curtain of steel, hideous, shrieking steel, runs on before and another runs down to meet it.

So now that you've taken the color from war, now that efficiency has surplanted romance, will you begrudge the lad his cup

of friendly rum? It is a poor substitute, perhaps, for shouts, and bunting, and the clang of the brasses, but it helps. Aye, it helps. But you will tell me that it is so unnatural, so unwholesome for the soldier's health. Perhaps it is -but Atkins, and John Doughboy, and Jean Francois, they could tell you of other things no less unnatural: phosgene, say, and cordite, and mustard gas. And as for health -well, the healthiness of war itself has never been notorious. So if you must send tall lads down into hellinto cold, lonely hells that Dante would have loved -it is only just that you send him a demon, some kindly, friendly demon, to show him through the shadows.

Said Samuel Johnson, "Sir, claret is the drink of boys, port of men, but if you would aspire to become a hero, you must drink brandy." Had the old gentleman known the virtues which repose in sugar cane, he would have completed his catalog thus: "And, sir, if you would gain the Olympian touch, you must drink rum." I exaggerate?

Rum the drink of gods? Let us see. We all remember Ypres -that wicked salient of Ypres ("Wipers," Tommy called it, "Wipers") and we remember, too but no, I am afraid we have all forgotten Ypres. No matter -those chaps at Ypres, those weary, wide-eyed creatures whose flesh made a wall about this muddy shambles; surely, surely, they were a little more than men. And the immortality which is theirs, this immortality so bitterly earned, is in no wise dimmed because a few kegs of rum, in the blacker moments, helped them through. Not whiskey, they wanted; nor ale, nor brandy, nor tea; but rum. And every night when the limbers rolled, and water and meat, and bread, were sneaked up to the outposts, rum was not forgotten. Frozen feet must be warmed, and flagging hearts lashed up.

For us, sitting by warm fires, nibbling our toast and tea, it is all too easy to scorn the solace that rum can offer. Sheltered as we are, pampered, protected, we have no need of such -but the shivering lad in a frozen ditch, what of him? His views, I suspect, will differ. And so long as armies will burrow in the earth, so long as a hundred hideous things are losed upon weary men, weary men wading in water waist deep -in ice water waist-deep, -so long will rum be indispensable.

Much more could be said for rum. Of ships, for instance; tall, many masted vessels plunging through North Atlantic winters, with helsmen at the wheel, half-frozen, heavy-eyed, sick at heartcheered by a pannikin of rum. But here we must rest our case. And what, after all, is our case? That rum, per se, is an admirable, a praise-worthy institution? In a measure, yes . There are cases, -we mentioned a few -where rum has no substitute. But this is not the point we wish to stress. We would direct attention to the curious development of a popular tongue. For, of all spiritous liquors which have served mankind ( for better or for worse) none has been of truer value, none has been less harmful , none has deserved more at the hands of men than has rum. And yet, what have we done? To designate the lowest stage of alcoholic degradation , to express the greatest destation of ardent spirits, we u se the very name of this warrior's mead. "Rum," we hiss, " Demon Rum."

jfaitb

J. w. C.

Twilight soft shadows

Woos into dreamland

Eyes that are weary with toils of the day. Soft are the night songs, Faithful the watch stars, That o'er the sleep-world hold their sway.

Why call the night darkness? Quail from its deep stillness? Letting its quiet bring despair to the breast. Through the deep calmness, Wooing me onward, Voices caressing, soft reassuring, bid my soul rest.

Dawn brings the new day, Hope starts with a new birth, Light of the whole universe reigneth above, Into the heart of me, Cometh the angel song, Bearing sweet hope along unto true love.

~ranbpa~ear~

H. M. HERMAN

As long as I live, I shall always carry with me the memory of old "Grandpa Mears" and the indelible impression his tragic death left upon my childish imagination. At the time of this event I was a mere lad of seven. My parents resided in Port Royal, S. C., a more hum-drum place it would be difficult to locate in all the wide area of the United States, characterized by the provincialism that labels inhabitants of a country village, and enjoying neither the luxuries nor even the comforts that our modern cities have grown so fond of and display so prodigally. Here a life of quietude could be passed untouched by the worries and irritations that are occasioned by the world of bustle and activitya monotonously uninterested life to be sure, reminding one withal of the unprogressive, self-complacent, smoke-curling villages so vividly sketched by Irving in his tales of the old Dutch inhabitants of old New York.

How poignantly do I remember the old station with its delapidated-looking structure, its incommodious waiting room, the uncomfortable benches, the weazened-faced, inquisitive-looking ticket agent whose antique appearance and stooped figure proclaimed him as much a part of the building as the floor under which he trodall a mute testimony of the unequal distribution of wealth and population. A majority of the white inhabitants represented the old type of the Southern plantation owner, and negroes who outnumbered them two to one, gave sufficient evidence by their childish expression and tattered garb that they were not yet adjusted to emancipation from slavedom. Five stores located along different sites of the miniature industrial centre were surrounded by dirty, unpaved streets that knew not the care of a street cleaning department. It was in such a place that I spent the pleasant moments of my childhood, and I can even now picture how I used to look when I rolled hoops in emulation with my companions or

THE MESSENGER

played ball in the streets, unmolested by automobile or street car. If the truth were to be known, there were only two automobiles the town could boast of, and 50 per cent of them belonged to the sharp-faced, quizzical looking country doctor, who gloried in impressing everyone with the prestige his Ford car had given him. My fear of this man almost amounted to an obsession, and in his presence my little heart fluttered and pounded at an awful rate. He knew it and took a fiendish delight in the knowledge. Whenever he saw me approaching he would crook the index finger of his right hand and rapidly move it to and fro in a beckoning manner, and I would always run away from him as if pursued by all the demons in the world.

How I feared that man! I remember once when I stuck a splinter in my foot I was dragged before my enemy to have it extracted. How I struggled and squirmed to escape operation at the hands of this man, but the combined strength of my father and the hired man was sufficient to overcome my opposition. As he ran his hands over the injured place I glanced with apprehension at the long needle he intended employing. I imagined he was diabolically chuckling at the opportunity that had placed me in his power and was preparing to impose his will on me. The awful cruelties of the inquisition fade into insignificance compared with the terror I felt as the long needle slowly pricked at the splinter. I cried -I struggled, to no avail. At last the obstruction was removed and I fainted from sheer exhaustion. I shall never forget that scene.

My fear of the doctor increased a hundred-fold, and often I would avoid playing with his son for fear of his approach. But there was another man whose lean figure and starched face made me dread him no less, though in a different way. He had a peculiar habit of tweaking little boys' noses as a sign of his affection, even in the presence of their parents, and many were the indignities I suffered from him. Sometimes he would come upon a group of us boys intently absorbed in watching the antics of a cat or some other animal, and before our legs could respond to the danger he was upon us, engaged in his awful habit. He would always single me out from my companions, and pulling my nose would say,

"Harry, I love you, I love you." Bitterly did I reflect that this was a poor and hypocritical way of lavishing his affection on innocent little boys.

In strange contrast to these individuals, "Grandpa Mears" inspired within me a love and affection that children rarely bestow upon others than their father and mother. Picture him if you can, a grey-haired old man, whose hale and hearty countenance contradicted his claim to seventy years of adventure and derelictness. A humorous mouth concealed by a bushy beard, and little eyes that twinkled mischievously, though kindly-recall him to me as distinctly as if he were now present in the flesh. He had come from England a mere youth, ready to conquer the world in spite of the protestations of his parents. Apparently he had no family ties outside of his parents, who had been dead for a long time. After accepting all kinds of positions, he proposed to spend the rest of his life in uneventful Port Royal as the agent for a land company. His office was located in the ground floor of the community dance hall, where would assemble the socially inclined inhabitants every Friday night. I was as scared of the dance hall, which when not in use was surrounded with an inpenetrable cloak of darkness, as I was fascinated by the office of old "Grandpa Mears." Here one could perceive a tattered map of England perched above a desk which threatened to crumble to pieces every time it was approached. An old gun which had seen better days was embraced by an old-fashioned sword which curiously resembled those employed by Captain Kidd's notorious pirates. And other relics such as sea-shells, ropes tied in various ways, tops which he would fashion in his leisure time, never failed to absorb my breathless admiration. But what attracted my attention most of all was a little magnifying glass, which I thought opened the door to a world of magic and wonder hitherto undreamed of even in my wildest dreams, and often would he regard me, as I recall in retrospect, with intent eyes as I listened to the tales he would weave about this little piece of glass. Oftimes he told me that it could look into a little boy's soul and detect the bad deeds he was guilty of, or that it was the gift of some fairy godmother, capable of untold magic powers.

"Grandpa Mears" would drop in my father's dry goods store and bring me all kinds of jam and candies. Tops and other handicraft articles he would supply me with constantly, and as for his stock of pennies, he seemed to be never without an abundance of them, and would give me one every day with the admonition, "Harry, be a good boy."

"Grandpa Mears" had a never ending repertoire of songs in which he would weave my name as well as my sisters'. Some of them I remember the tunes of even to this day, and always there comes before me the picture of this kind-hearted old gentleman as I hum them. There was no person who spoke naught but good of "Grandpa Mears" for whenever in his presence, sullenness would evanesce as snow before the fiery attack of a reappearing sun. Everyone lives contentedly in a small village until an awful bereavement befalls one of their friends, and then what a sincere display of grief is shown on every hand. It was on a Tuesday morning that the old man came into my father's store and bestowed on me the usual one cent reward. It had been his custom to always hum a song when he saw me, and on this particular day he seemed overflowing with good cheer. He returned to his office about ten o'clock that morning, and soon thereafter was called to his untimely death. My parents tried to conceal the news from me but I soon found out the tragedy that had befallen my more than companion, the ·one in whom I confided all my secret boyish misgivings and held in such a warm affection. I was dumbfounded, sensing though not understanding what was meant by those solemn words of my father, "You shall never see 'Grandpa Mears' again." How I wept my little heart out! Sob after sob shook my frame as I incoherently reeasoned that never would I be able to find a person to take the place of this dearest, kindliest old gentleman I had ever known. His death could have been prevented. While going down the stairs leading from the dance hall, with its inpenetrable coat of darkness -which always held me in such mortal terror -to his office, the old man whose legs were not so spry as in former days missed his footing and fell a corpse to the bottom. The trag~dy held the whole town in its grip. I slunk away into the woods which encompassed the village and there

tried to console myself. Death was a new thing for me. It was the first time I had been brought so close to its ravages and I could only instinctively separate myself from it. "Why was it that inflicted such griefs upon the world." These questions then remained unanswered, but I have since found out that regardless of the manner in which we conduct ourselves on this beautiful earth, our destinies are in hands more powerful than the finite mind can comprehend in its restricted outlook; more closely supervised than the skeptic soul wishes to acknowledge.

The memory of dear old "Grandpa Mears" grows more invaluble and richer as the flight of years obliterates many things experienced in childhood days.

J,aunting,fflelobies

ALPHA GORDON

Somebody ought to organize a Society for the Prevention of Musical Comedies. There are societies for the prevention of nearly everything else, and surely nothing is more insidiously demoralizing than is a musical comedy !

"So I'm a reformer" Dear me, no! I fear, gentle reader, that I haven't made myself very clear. My reason for instigating a movement for their suppression is a purely selfish one. As a matter of fact, I adore musical comedies, and nothing short of a thunderstorm can keep me away from one. I mention a thunderstorm, for I am mortally afraid of them, and at the first sign of one I go straight for the darkest closet, and a pillow to bury my head in.

It isn't the musical comedy itself to which I'm raising an objection, but it's the after-effects.

If they'd only have one song, it would be perfectly all right. But, you see, they don't! They sing song after song -a bit of "jazz" here, a plaintive waltz there, each one a bit more captivating than the last. You strive frantically to catch the air of this one sothat you can hurry home and try it over on the piano, but by the time that you can grin and say to yourself, "Ha! Now I know that one!" they've swung off into another, and you're hopelessly lost again. But out of the whole conglomeration, there's always one line of one song that sticks, sticks "closer than a brother," and no power can separate it from you. It runs through your mind continually, tormenting you, teasing you, tantalizing you.

I remember that after I came back from "Irene," there was one phrase which haunted me for weeks : only the one line -

"That tippety-witch, Irene O'Dare !"

To save my life I could not remember how the song started, or how it ended, but that one refrain rang in my mind day and night.

I was awakened in the morning with that snatch of melody tickling my ear drums, and all day long it haunted me. At school in the midst of the most serious of lecturesi on the invasion of the Ostrogoths, it came to call my mind away. "Miss Gordon, I fear you are not paying strict attention." How could I keep my mind on the Ostrogoths when "That tippety-witch, Irene O'Dare" was driving me to distraction? In church, it was the same way. The most staid and dignified of the hymns had no counteracting effect whatsoever.

I sang it continually to the utter disgust of my friends and family. Mother suffered patiently as long as she could stand it, and then "Alpha, if you must sing that tuneless song, would you seriously object to starting at the beginning? And incidentally, what is a "tippety-witch' ?"

So I tried valiantly to root it from my memory. I sang at the top of my voice the "Star-Spangled Banner," "Jackie Frost," "Juanita," "Bye, Baby, Bye" - everything I'd ever known, from kindergarten jingles to grand opera gems! But it was all of no avail, for "That tippety-witch, Irene O'Dare" persisted incorrigibly. I gave up in hopeless disgust, and vowed never to go to another musical comedy. (I might add that my family vowed never to let me go to another!) But, deep down in my inmost soul, I know that when "Wild Flower" comes to town it will find me on the front row of the "peanut gallery."

~be Wap of ~ailor~

R. E. BOOKER

It was a beautiful day in June when the Waterbury finished "taking on" her 8,000 barrels of oil and cast off for her trip abroad. The Waterbury, a new model "Hog Island" ship, had a capacity of nine thousand tons, and the cargo was "black diamonds," socially known as coal.

The weather was hot for June and every one on board the ship was delighted to know that we were on our way out of the capes. There was work aplenty to do on the ship and everybody "turned to" and had the boat in fairly decent sailing order by the time we got outside of the capes.

There was a beautiful moon that greeted us when nightfall began, and all of the sailors gathered around on the aft hatch to talk and smoke and swap yarns. The steady splash! splash ! of the ship's propeller added to the harmony of the songs that were sung and there was a genuine feeling of good fell ow suffership. This, our first day out, gave great promise of a fine voyage . In the course of the conversation the majority of the sailors agreed that the captain seemed to "kn ow his stuff" and the chief mate was a "regular guy," but the second mate seemed "too damned stuck up ," and there was the possibility of the second mate's being among the missing before the voyage was over.

There was stories of whaling ships, their hazards and life on hard-tack and whale meat; then there were tales about the South Seas and of every strange port known. Finally the Bos'n and Speed Smith were talking about the trip they made to Rio once.

"By Goel !" exclaimed the Bos'n. "If I ever find that lowsy Greek that cut me in the back in Rio I'll kill him, or I'm not a son of a Norwegian." There was no room for doubt about the ancestry of the Bos'n. He was medium height, tanned to an artist's taste, with a red mustache and a bald head with earlocks of tinged gray. His forty-five years seemed to rest lightly upon his should-

ers, and his worn-off black teeth showed that a number of these years had been devoted to the pipe and chewing habit.

Speed spoke up, "Not if I see him first, you won't, Bos'n, because I figure he gave me away to the police." Sped was a young, heavy-set fellow who had seen all kinds of life. Deep set, piercing eyes, showed him to be a man of determination and ready and willing to carry out his threat at any time.

This conversation got up the interest of everyone, and finally the Bos'n told about his scrap in Rio.

"You see, boys, Speed and me were up town at Rio Sal's, just havin' some fun with the gals, and let me tell you, boys, you don't know what pretty gals are until you go to Rio. If you ever go down there go to the big road house upon the hill that is right up from the American Bar on Perez Street. You can't miss it. And if you have any doubt, ask for Rio Sal. Anybody can tell you who she is.

"Well, as I started to say, Sped here and me were up at Sal's house having fun and I admit we had been boozing some, but we weren't drunk by a whole lot. So we had some more drinks and something to eat. You see, Sal run a swell place with music and everything that a sailor could wish for.

"About the time we were ready to go up, in walked this Greek and it seemed that he was out for trouble. He goes over to Speed, here, and says, 'What are you doing with my woman?'

"Speed says, 'To hell with you! She's my woman tonight.'

"'No, she is not,' says the Greek, and Speed got up as if to protect himself, because you never can tell what a Greek will do.

"I had been listening to all this, and I took my gal out of my lap and sit her in my chair and comes over to where Speed was, and I say, 'By God! I don't know you and don't givva damn, either, but you better lay off Speed or you will have more trouble on your hands than you can handle.' With that, the Greek he laff s and says, 'All right, but that woman is my wife, and you devils stole her from Cuba and brought her here. I know all about it and I came here for my wife. I have policemen here to arrest both of you hounds.'

"With this, the little gal give a shriek and says, 'It is true, but I don't want to go with him.' At this I jumps on the Greek, and quicker than you know he had his knife in my back and nearly cut my shoulder off. I finally got the knife away from him and give him a good slit across the head. I can tell him all right if I ever see him again.

"The cops come in now and grabs us all up. I went to the hospital and nearly died, and Speed, here, was put in jail. That Greek got some money and bribed the police in Rio and Speed and me were lucky to get out alive. I figger some day I'll get him yet and I won't be so drunk that I won ' t know that scar."

All this time Speed had not said much except to dress the Rio police and the Greek up in fine sailor phrases, which increased with vehemence as the story proceeded . His final comment was, "If we see that guy together, Bos'n, remember, I get first crack at him.''

An argument ensued and the high dice gave Speed first crack at their mutual enemy. All of this was a new piece of drill to me . I had heard in the war about killing men, but to hear men sit down and premeditate murder sent cold chills over my body. It also told me to get on the good side of Bos'n and Speed.

There were so many similar tales told that night that it seemed every old salt had a special grievance against some one and was sailing with the hopes of finding the enemy, some day, when revenge would be sweet. I think that every one went to bed feeling that they would like to be around when Speed and the Bos'n caught the Greek. I was to be a young inquisition. * * * * * *

Louie was a fireman on the Waterbury. It was his first trip with any of the men on board. The "black gang" was never taken into the folds of the "salts," so Louie never pushed himself around where the sailors were. Louie was a Greek fireman, with the idea of learning to be an engineer. He was an intelligent looking fell ow of about the average build, but he had a shy nature. The boldness of ship life never made itself manifest in him at all.

He attended to his work, did his own washing, and seemed to be very much satisfied with the world in general, and himself in particular.

The firemen, as well as sailors, stood an eight-hour watch. Louie's watch was from twelve to eight o'clock at night. Consequently , he slept most of the morning and again at night. He ate at the firemen's mess and none of the sailors saw very much of him.

When we were about five days from port, the chief mate gave orders to paint the "poop deck." Speed and myself were put on this job. The second morning we were painting the "poop" our work carried us by the door of the "firemen's mess " Louie was at the table eating his breakfast with his back toward the door. Speed looked in the door and uttered :

"By damn! If that isn't my old friend, I'll go to hell on the skipper's back." Whereupon he bolted through the door and began to fire questions at the Greek. Louie denied ever having been to Rio and seemed hurt that Speed should get him mixed up as he did. Speed was not satisfied and he called the Bos'n in. The court martial of Speed and Bos'n seemed to render this decision to Louie : "You are doomed to die at the first opportunity we get to bump you off."

Louie finished his breakfast and did not seem to be so very much impressed with the threat. But I noticed that he took the bread knife from the table with him and carefully concealed the same in his shirt.

Speed and Bos'n held a council of war and planned to toss Louie overboard the next night when he was going on watch. I heard all of this, but was afraid to say anything to Louie because I felt that the same fate as destined the fireman would be my lot if I squealed.

I said to Bos'n, "For God's sake, man! You ain't going to kill somebody on an old grudge like that, are you?"

"Certainly, by Goel!" he exclaimed. "That Greek did us dirty enough to be killed thirty times." And menacingly he said to me, "Remember, this is none of your business." I knew how to act from then on.

I slept very little the next night. I heard the watch call Louie at eleven-thirty. Poor fellow! He did not know what was awaiting him. In a few minutes I heard Louie leave the bulkhead and start for the engine room. Immediately there was a scuffle, and much noise on the deck. Most of the sailors awoke and rushed out to see what was going on. There seemed to be a plenty. There was Louie brandishing his knife and Speed and Bos'n facing a forty-five held respectively by the skipper and second mate. The skipper had the floor.

"If there is any killing to be done, I'm the man to do that, and you two devils march up to the forward locker, where I'm going to chain you. And , damn you, I hope you get hung for this."

I went to the locker next day to get some paint. Speed and Bos'n were lying there on some old rope and burlap with their hands "cuffed" around a stanchion.

"Well, Speed," I said, "I'm sorry about this ."

"Yes, Fats, I am, too, and at first I thought you gave us away." Here I felt my knees get quite weak. "But, " he said, "that lowsy second mate was on top of the "poop" and heard me and Bos'n make our plans. Damn hard luck I calls it!" The Bos'n sanctioned Speed's words with a volley of sailor phra ses that showed a long and treasured accumulation of the same .

"Fats," said Bos'n, "tell that Greek that he don't want to testify against us when we go to court."

I did as he bade me , wondering what effect it would have. Louie did not say a word, but a frightened look came into his eyes.

We made port the next day and Speed and Bos'n were carried before the American consul. Louie made no charge against them. The case was dismissed, and they were allowed to come back on the ship with their same jobs as before.

That night all the boys were sitting around on the deck talking to Bos'n and Speed. Bos'n called Louie out of the forecastle, and said, "We are all right now , Louie, Speed and me ain't going to hurt you." Louie grinned and walked away. Bos'n then turned to Speed. "I don't like that second mate much."

"Neither do I," said Speed. "And I wouldn't be surprised when this ship gets back and we get paid off, if there won't be a little tap on the head for a certain young fellow who thinks he's a sailor."

"Not if I see him first, you won't," said Bos'n. "Well, we ain't going to argue over it. Let's roll 'em for the honors," remarked Speed.

From the hearty chuckles of those who were gathered around the two "salts," the schemes and the result of the throw evidently met with their delighted approval. Such is the way of sailors.

a ~ersian i,erob

JOHN M. YONAN

In the city of Batum, on the shore of the Black Sea, there lived a Persian Prince. He was a very rich man, and his beautiful palace was built near the sea, where he had three hundred wives, as is the custom of the Mohammedans.

One sunny day this great prince went hunting with his servants on the slope of a beautiful mountain. While he was crossing through the field of a Russian peasant, he saw a young girl picking flowers. He stopped and asked her: "Who are you, and what are you doing here alone?"

With a smile she said: "I am the daughter of Admiral Levan, who is the governor of Batum; every day my father lets me come here to pick flowers." At the same time her father with a number of soldiers appeared there. Then the Prince left her and turned back to his palace.

Next morning he called those servants who went with him when he went hunting, and said to them: "I want you to go to the same place where we met the girl; look around; if you do not see any one, then take her on your horses and bring her here to me." They did what he told them. You must not be surprised about this, because a rich man in that country can do any thing he wants, especially in the case of marriage, though he already had three hundred wives.

In the evening this great man was on the porch of the palace waiting for their coming. Before the sun set they came and brought with them Marine Levan, a beautiful girl of eighteen years, with golden hair, black eyes, rosy cheeks, and a sweet personality which would attract any one.

Day after day passed, as the time will go, and every morning Malloom would go into her room, which he decorated for her with pictures and beautiful rugs; he would her call her "Marine,"

and she would open her eyes and look with a smile on the old face of Malloom. Among those three hundred wives she was the only one who was loved by him.

Now, Malloom had a son twenty-five years of age, who fell in love with Marine. He was in a great struggle, because she was loved most by his father, and so he could not marry her.

After a few years a great war began between the r,1ohammedans in Caucasus and the Russians. So Malloom sent his son, Bacur, as a general to the war. The war was won by Bacur. Before he returned home, Malloom prepared to give a reception in his honor to the leaders of the nation. In time the messenger came with these words : "I will be at home at seven in the evening." Everybody was ready, while on the table a feast was spread. The son entered and every one stood up in his honor. While they were at the table his father arose and said with a proud voice: "My son, you have won the war, and kept the name of your father high; I will give you anything you ask."

Some thought he would ask for a sword ; some thought for a gun; and some thought for his property, but that was all in vain. The son rose, and cried with a loud voice: "Father, don't you see this sword? I have fought and won the war for one thing only: and that is Marine." Everyone shuddered at his answer. His father paled and trembled; he could not control himself, as the tears were streaming down his cheeks. He went out in the front of the palace and wondered what he could do for that promise; it was very hard for him to break it, because it was made before the leaders of the nation.

When the reception was over everyone left, including the son, and as he reached the door he saw someone walking in the front of Marine's window. He knew instantly that it was his father. He approached near to him, and for a while they talked, then his father said: "Son, it is impossible; wait here for a few minutes; I will go and bring her. Let us take a walk near the shore and ask her what she wants to do." So his father went into the room very softly and called her. She was in great fear for what would happen.

All three together left the palace. It was very dark, the skies were covered with clouds, and the sea was roaring. Terrible it was to leave the palace at that time, but love must be followed to its end.

They talked over the matter and the son told her all, but she was silent.

Now they approached nearer, and nearer, till they reached the top of a ridge; the father stood on a rock and looked down in the depths of that roaring sea; it was terrible, but it was to be decided. The father opened his lips and said: "Son, let me free from this promise; do not be the cause of death."

"No! Father, you have promised." Then, with a breaking heart the father took Marine in his arms; she smiled softly, as she did not understand the coming danger. He stepped again near the mouth of the rock and held his hands up. At once he threw her down into that depth. After a second he threw himself after her. The son shouted, but all in vain; his Marine was in the depths of the sea. He said to himself: "My Marine and my father are gone ; can I live any more ?"

There were three when they le£t the palace, but he came back alone. It was about 1 :30 A. M., when he reached the palace, went up to her room and stood behind her bed. "Oh! Marine is not here; she is dead; I cannot live any more." Then he threw his hand on his revolver and shot himself.

Jfn~xaminations

W.E.

For two hours Jean had written steadily, deliberately, with the concentration which was characteristic of her. The girl in the next seat seemed equally absorbed in counting the fat, brownenameled buds of the sweet gum whose winged branches swayed across the windows of the English class room. But spring was of interest to Jean only in so far as it furnished material for the poets, whose attitude toward this, that and the other she delighted in ascertaining to a nicety. Absent-mindedly she blew from her paper the pine pollen which had floated in through the windows, and jotted down an outline for a discussion of Browning's imagery.

Lines, phrases, similes rose to her mind, she deftly sorted them, incorporating some in her discourse, discarding others as irrelevant. There was one line, however, that refused to be either incorporated or discarded :