There stands, Amidst the trees and shrubs, A church of yesterday. It's old, and worn, is crumbling, The roof is green with moss And grass is growing through the floor. Instead of window panes Some spiders spun their webs of silk Which catch the sparkling dew. The altar where the Bible used to lay Protects a sparrow's brood and nest:
Not far from town
There stands
A church of yesterday No longer fit to be The House of God Because
They've built a "modern" one (More beautiful, they say) Of blood red brick, Of iron And steel, Of great thick doors And locks.
VoL. LI
A TEA PICKER'S STORY
CHA CK KWONG WONG
At the request of Mr. L L. Jones to contribute some articles to the next issue of The Messenger, whether it is poetry, story, or blank verse, I hesitate for a while, know• ing my handicap to handle the English language It seems wiser to obey the old Chinese proverb, "to hide my shame rather than to expose my ignorance ." But to try out something is our means not our ends.
Doubtless when a piece of literature is translated into another language it ceases to be literature. The good proof for that is my present attempt If you know how much the English speaking people enjoy Gray's 'Elegy,'' Goldsmith's "Deserted Village," and Robert Burn's "The Cotters Saturday Night," probably you can estimate how much the Chinese people love this piece of literature which I have selected · to translate, as this short sketch gives us a vivid picture of the country life of contemporary China.
My home is built among the mists of a thousand hills. North and south of our village we find the green tea growing everywhere. I am very busy after festival and before rainfall, for I must get up early in the morning to pick the leafy tea. At early dawn I dress my hair in a hurried manner and go out from the door through the thick mist. The dames and maidens go hand in hand and ask me: "What steep slope of Sun-Lo will you climb today, Miss?" The sky is still dark with twilight dimly setting upon the hilltop. The dewy leaves and cloudy buds are hard to gather. I pause for a while: "Oh who are they, the thirsty ones for whom this work we do; for whom we spend our toil day by day?"
Our companions aid each other and talk while they pick down the twigs. One must say: "Sweet sister, not delay, for we fear the buds are growing old and tomorrow the drizzling rain may fall."
We have picked enough, and find that the topmost bough is bare of leaves. We fill up our baskets and then start along the homeward path. While passing by the pool laughing a pair of mallard uprise and fly away in two directions. The pool is clear and there grow the lotus like large round coins, their leaves only half opening. I bend myself over the jutting brink in order to see how my face looks today. My face is dirty, my hair is awry and out of trim. "Oh tell me where you can find another girl so ugly as I am now?" This is because I am forced to pick the tea all the weary day. The driving winds and soaking showers are not kind to the skin of my face.
Next morning come again the wind and rain, so fierce and strong. I wear a small hat and carry a long basket as I go my way along. When all the picking is done! then home once more. But look how muddy all my dresses are !
Today we have a pleasant day. I dress my hair and fix my hair pin, and hurriedly I go to the garden. But never thinking of the mire
I forget to wear my working shoes. As soon as I reach the garden the thunder rolls. I do not return. My bow-shaped shoes are soaking. I call my comrade yonder to pass the word to my home that one may bring me my green umbrella. But the small umbrella just covers my head, not my whole body. I stand with clothes all dripping wet like some poor fisher-lad, and like him my hand holds a basket of woven meshes . . Yes I am a fisher-lad, if only I had his fishing rod and line. The rain is soon over. The leaves show forth their green fibres. Fragrant odors come forth from the bushes. I gather the yellow golden thread that makes the precious odor that clings to my dresses.
This fragrant scent is as sweet and as fair as the Aglaia perfume. For this reason the color and quality of my tea is far better than Woo Yuen's. This morning I have done the last gathering. When all are picked I shall leave the shoots to bud again next spring.
I do not withhold my toil. Even my picking is difficult. My maiden locks are all askew and my pearly fingers are cold, but I only wish my tea to be superior over all, over the "Sparrow tongue" and the "Dragon ball."
Is there a single day in a month that I find leisure time? I go to pick at early dawn and return late at evening. At midnight I am still standing at the firing pan. Does not the hard labor impair the softness of my pretty face? Although my face be somewhat lank yet my mind will be firm. I shall fire my tea to a color like golden buds. But the thought suddenly arises - who shall be the pretty maid to put my leaves in a jewelled cup from thence to drink my tea?
Do I dare neglect my work? I find lots of work to do yet. The firing and the drying is done and once more this very morn I shall climb the high Sung-Lo again. Now with my wicker basket on arm and my hair entwined with flowers I go to the slope of high Sung-Lo, where I pick my tea. Walking down on the road we hold sweet conversation. I point to yonder village and say to my comrades, "There lies my house. My home is surrounded by the pendant willows and my thatched dwelling hides under their sweet green shade. If you will be my guests tomorrow you will know my door by the fragrant scent - the scent of the firing tea."
Now it is cold and then it is warm again. Certainly the sky is changed unexpectedly and this will bother me when I want to fire my
THE MESSENGER
tea. \i\Thile the sun goes down on the western hills, look! On the eastern hills there is rain. Supposing it is fair? But my hopes are vain.
Today the tint of the western hills is fair. I bear my crate and wait for my comrades at the stiles. A little tender lass is leaning up against the rail. She sleeps soundly and answers not my calling. And when at length, to my loudest call, she murmurs a replyit is as if it is hard to conquer sleep, and with half-opened eyes. She straightens up suddenly and makes haste her steps along the path. She brings her basket, but alas, she forgets to put the cover on!
We trudge together along the southern bowers where waves the beautiful sea-pomegranate flowers. We stop and try to pluck a few for our hair dressing, but the tree is high; we try in vain to reach the, tempting spray. The pretty yellow birds sing their sweet songs upon the branches and the sky is so fine, now, half cloudy and half clear. While leaning ourselves upon the branches we express to each other our woes, and we talk till our hearts are hurt and the tears unstinted flow. The evening is approaching and yet our baskets are not full to the mouth.
The quality of the tea, as learned by my experience, is this: the bitter is finer than the sweet. Such two tastes, for , me , mingle in one. I do not know for whom it will be bitter and for whom it will be sweet, but the toil I have done has broken my tender fingers.
Let the swallows go and come, but when next time I go to pick tea again certainly I shall change my old gown. I do not mind rolling my sleeve up and showing my pretty arm if it is the style!
RAIN
GEORGE R. FREEDLEY
Lush lingering raindrops brush amourously against my lips bathe lightly my cheeks and rest in the dank luxuriousness of my hair
SONGS FOR WOOD-FOLK
THELMA PHLEGAR
I
I've pitied those who know not houses - straight Clean rows of them with lamplight through the door And neighbors talking, leaning on the gate. I've pitied - but I shall not any more.
To have a house means going in from all This sudden grey-sweet veil in the April lane, Lest men should wonder. Though such beauty fall, To have four walls means shelter from the rain.
II
She walked with exultation - gay Or grave in ways men did not know, And straight young beeches held aglow Their buds like candles for her way.
Earth-love gave her a silence deep As dwellers under forest leaves Hold in their eyes, when autumn grieves Above their ancient settling sleep.
She touched the soil with wistful hand; She loved blue flowers. When she had To die, being mortal, earth was glad ... What is it old trees understand?
THREE BAGS OF CORN
MARGARET KNIGHT
He opened the door. In the streak of sunshine which cut the darkness of the barn, a face loomed up, pale and frightened.
For several moments Aaron Holdon stood chewing his tobacco in silence, regarding incuriously the figure crouched in the corner. Then he turned, shifting the wad of tobacco in his mouth to spit and pulled the door shut.
When the buzzing noises of the sultry Kansas midday had been closed out, a tense stillness filled the barn. The old farmer stood accustoming his eyes to the dimness, his tall figure bowed in an awkward stoop. A surly taciturnity hung over him, and there was no expression in his voice when he spoke.
"Get out of this barn."
The boy hiding in the corner stood up, his scared eyes clinging to Holdon's face.
The farmer, without looking again at the boy, crossed to the grain bin and, taking a burlap sack from the wall, he began to fill it with cracked corn clipped up in a grain measure. The boy watched him in timid silence for a moment, and then started to speak. He seemed to have difficulty with his voice, for he cleared his throat once or twice before words came. Even at that he spoke huskily.
"Can I get a job here?"
Holdon's eyes did not leave his knotty fingers systematically filling the corn measure.
"I said to get out of here."
Slowly the boy started for the door. As he moved he wrapped about him his oversized coat, and pulled a dilapidated cap lower over his eyes. When he reached the door he stopped and turned towards Holdon. There was a dogged note in his voice.
"I can't go out there. Give me some work and let me stay here, won't you?"
With the characteristic "mulishness" of his nature, as his neighbors called it, Holdon did not trouble to break his silence.
A puzzled wrinkle crossed the boy's forehead.
"Say, mister, can't I stay? I can work awful hard."
The sack was nearly filled now. Holdon put one more measure of grain into the bag and straightened up. For the first time the
boy saw plainly the farmer's eyes. They were gray blue, set far back in his clay colored face, in a network of deep wrinkles. The boy did not like those wrinkles. They were not the kind that come from smiling; they had been drawn in the face when the eyes were half shut to keep out blazing sunshine, and salty sweat had made them deeper, as it dripped from hot cheek to acrious soil. Then, those eyes were queer. Something seemed to be dead behind them,-something which should have been vitally alive. Or else a shade had been carefully drawn over any feeling which might show in their pale depths.
Boldon spoke in his monotonous voice.
"This barn ain't for tramps. You get out of here and stay out!"
The boy started once more through the door, but again he paused.
"Honest, mister, I can't go out there." He looked down. "I'm not a tramp -I'm a --" he paused, but a desperate look came over his face and he went on: "Mister, I've just run away from the state prison, down there in the valley !"
Boldon was staring at him in silence.
"I've been in that dump of stones for seven months now -because they say I stole some money, and it's -say, it's just got me." He swallowed hard and looked up at Boldon, who was still standing motionless. Only those thin, white lips which people said never uttered a kindly word, were moving, as he shifted his quid of tobacco.
Perhaps encouraged by this silence the boy began again. He was very nervous, and although he tried to speak slowly, his words broke out as if from stiff and irksome bonds.
"You see, I've always worked on a farm, and somehows"he was tearing at a cornhusk with trembling fingers -"about this time of year everything's kinde17purty, and green, out in the country, and -say, mister," -suddenly his speech became almost wild -"suppose you'd been staying in a hole for seven months, and knew you'd got to stay there for ten years-ten years -ten years"his voice broke, and with a gulp he stopped.
The farmer made no sound. A pleading note crept into the boy's voice.
"Say, mister, can't I get work here and make enough money to get back home ?"
Boldon waited to spit and to bend back over the grain before he answered him.
"Get out of here."
Stark terror whitened the boy's face.
"I can't go out there," he whimpered, "don't you understand I can't go out there! Them men have been looking for me since sun-up, and if I got it figured out right they'll be by here 'most any minute now. Say, mister, I wasn't going to hurt your barn. I was just going to climb up there in the loft until them men pass by."
Holdon filled another grain measure. Watching the farmer's every move, the boy came closer.
"How about it, mister, won't you give me some work clothes and a big sun hat so's they won't know me when they get here? Say, mister, they're liable to be here any minute now -can't I get them clothes? Folks always need extra hands in the spring, and I'll work hard and awful cheap. Can I stay?" He looked fearfully over his shoulder at the partly open door, then fixed eager eyes on Holdon's face.
In the absolute silence of th~ barn the boy heard a grain of corn drop to the floor, and watched the farmer bend over to pick it up. The second bag of corn filled, Holdon straightened his back .. and turned his expressionless eyes on the boy. There seemed to be a faint glimmer of interest on his face. Finally he shook his head.
"Too thin for hard work," he muttered.
The boy heard him.
"It's just because I ain't been eating much," he explained hastily. "I ain't no baby, but down there I couldn't help kinder wondering about the farm and if the cows was being tended alright, and somehows, I just couldn't seem to eat."
Holdon began filling the third bag of grain. Evidently he was not listening.
"But say, I'd get strong as an ox again."
The boy was realizing the flight of time. Nervously he watched the door , moistening his hot lips and jerking fiercely at his cap which he had pulled from his head.
"Say, mister, them men're liable to get here any time, now. Ain't you--"
Suddenly he stopped dead . His eyes, opened wide in horror, were fixed on the crack it\ the door. His drys lips strove to make a sound. Outside the barn there was a faint sound of footsteps.
Holdon was imperturbably filling his third sack with corn. In terror the boy turned to the farmer.
"What am I going to do, mister, what am I going to do?" he wailed. In a panic of terror he began beating his fists together.
Wildly he ran for the ladder leading to the loft of the barn.
"I'll get up in the loft and wait for 'em to go on -you don't mind, do you, mister -say, mister, you don't care if I hide in your loft, do you?"
He was pulling himself up the ladder with feverish jerks of his thin arms. There was no response from the figure bent over the grain bin. The boy was talking over his shoulder:
"When they ask you if I've been here you can tell 'em 'yes,' and then when they ask where I went you can just point down the road - you'll do that, won't you, mister? You don't need to say a word." He reached the top of the ladder.
Holdon had not glanced up. The boy was moving about in the straw above.
"I'll just lay down here, real quiet, and -listen! -say, mister, I'll just work my bones off to thank you" --he stopped.
In the quietness another grain of corn dropped to the floor, and absolute stillness settled down over the barn as Holden stopped his work.
Outside the door came the sound of footsteps, then the rumble of men's voices. Holdon had bent once more over the grain bin, when two men pushed open the barn door. At sight of Holdon they stopped, and one of them spoke:
"Haven't seen a boy, about twenty years old, go by here today, have you?"
Boldon filled a measure with corn, then nodded.
"You have? Which way did he go?" the stranger demanded m quick interest.
Holdon paused in his sack filling, shifted his wad of tobacco in his mouth, and straightened up to spit. He pushed his hat back and scratched his head. He was thinking intently.
Finally he shook his head.
"\i\There'd he go?" demanded the stranger.
"Too thin for hard work," growled Boldon, and pointed up to the loft. Then he spit again and bent over the grain bin.
A mind stirring restively inadequacy incoherently gurgles and a few bubbles
COLLEGE PORTRAITS I.
GEORGE
GEORGE REYNOLDS FREEDLEY
George is somewhat of an enigma. A mystery, as it were; or maybe a joke, all depending on your point of view. "Poseur," cry the untutored ( untutored, that is, in the most recent developments of ultra-mod ern art and literature). "How cute he is," say the girl s . "How cute he is. What would our Minstrels do without George?" And the faculty? What thinks the faculty? Alas, "I know not, and am confu sed" All the same, he's somewhat of an enigma, is George. For example, he possesses a soul of batik. Yes , indeed, Mesdames, a soul all in batik. Veiled batik. A flaming soul. A soul of many colors. Then, too, he is a radical. A radical , an esthete, an iconoclast. Thei Dial, for George , is Holy Writ. He is far more menckian than the devastating H. L. himself. And poetry! As for poetry, he is two or three centuries in advance of all us other poor philistines. And he is no mean con£ectioner of verse. Exquisite verse, palpitating verse, profound verse. Especially profound no one can fathom it.
George is a Thespian. He has strutted many a potent strut across the boards in behalf of the University Players, and for the sake of pure histronic art. He wields a wicked monocle on such occasions, and flattens our plebean souls with a jolly, old broad A, you know.
To know George is an adventure. An adventure in psychology, spiritualism, and literature. Also exoticism. (He has a monomania, mes enfants, a monomania.)
And yet, in this age of commerce, when the good old cultural studies steadily loose ground beneath the deadening assault of courses in Business Administration, Salesmanship, and Moral Uplift, it is refreshing to encounter a chap who ( despite a harmless snort or two) still loves the Good, the True, and the Beautiful as does George -in a fashion.
ROSABEL
WARREN A. McNEILL
Reddened, as if with weeping, but shielded by a mist of unshed tears, the sun was slowly losing itself behind the dark horizon, as the eyelid of night closed down upon it, and it seemed not so much to the person beside him as to the sun that he was speaking in a voice hardly his own.
"I am aware," he admitted, "that it is not customary in these clays for a man to speak as I am now speaking. Indeed, even in a romantic tale, the critics would scoff at me as archaic and not true to life. But I am not aware that' I am under any obligation to be true to life. Certain it is that life has no~ always been true tO' me, and I am too conventional to attempt to practice the golden rule in a land where current standards of morality are so at variance with it.
"Moreover, the sentiment I would express has nothing to do with trueness to life, but is rather a rejection of things as they exist. You are earthly and quite human, as I realize in my saner moments. I could not have associated with you as long as I have without discovering some things about you. The idiosyncrasies of your speech and appearance at various times, including the kind of clothes you may be expected to wear, are not unknown to me; nor am I ignorant of your views on the so-called problems of the day, whether they be general or personal. In all of these things I find you little different from other women I have known.
"But, in spite of these things, there are times, and the present is one of them, when I feel that I do not know you. It is for that reason I can love you.
"For, to love a mere woman is bound to be disappointing. All women are in themselves disappointing. Either they have no vices and are insipidly lacking in earthly coloring, like a clear brook on a cloudy day -transparent and reflecting nothing; or else, they have certain faults and are like a brook touched by the glow of the sun, but babbling and frothy -pleasing to the senses for a time, but afterwards, tiresome and making one drowsy.
"You, however, are different. There is something about you like a stream sparkling in the moonlight of fancy; clouds of reality may obscure fancy's face and you disappear in the shadows, but when the cloud has passed, you appear again, reflecting the !if e about you yet not quite touched or changed by it.
"This is what you have been to me; it is because of this that I have loved you, and it is because you will now remain unchanged that I would thank you.
"To say that I have loved you is hardly accurate; it is rather a wraith that inhabits you which I have loved; a wraith drawn from my fondest dreams, yet having you as its material abiding place.
"In saying that I may not see you again, you are taking much from me. You are robbing me of something which I may never replace. For, while the wraith is a part of me and will always remain, never again can it find a material lodging. Hereafter I shall of ten catch a glimpse of that perfect loveliness I have known in you; many times it will come to me in memory and ' awaken vague regrets which may not easily be defined.
"Worse than that, there will be times when I shall catch glimpses of it in other women, and pursue it for a time, only to find that the object of my quest, when it seems almost within my grasp, leaves each other person and flutters back to the memory of you. Such experiences may prove embarrassing-they cannot easily be explained.
"But again I say I do not mean to chide, but rather to thank you.
"To have won you would have been the real tragedy, I fear. To have been with you and watched the vision slowly fade until it could not be discerned; to have come to the time when you no longer inspired the ecstasy of belief in an ideal being; that would have been a deep tragedy. For once it was lost in; you, the wraith could never return to me again. To lose you means only the promise of a life of delicious discontent, justified and made worth while by occasional glimpses of the perfection which in youth I worshipped."
"I understand," he said, in what seemed a different voice, that drew him away from the sunset and back to himself.
She murmured, "I'm sorry if I have hurt you by telling you that I cannot feel as I believe you would want me to feel and that I think it will be better, for both of us, if we do not see each other again. But what were you going to say just now when you stopped and then said that you understood?"
Suddenly realizing that he had not been speaking aloud, he replied, "I was merely going to say that while I regret your refusal of me, I am not going to express the usual sorrow and disappoint~ ment, but rather admit that perhaps what you have decided is best -
THE MESSENGER
for both of us. I shall miss seeing you, but 'I would have nothing changed, least of all would I forget; having drunk nectar neat, one would not qualify it with the waters of Lethe.' "
"That," she said, "sounds like a quotation and I am not sure that I understand what you mean by it."
"No," he admitted, "you probably don't understand; I am not sure that I understand myself. That is what I was thinking about when I broke off in the middle of my sentence a few minutes ago.
"Besides, I hear the vesper bell which, under the rule of the college, means -good-bye. May we part as friends?"
"You are a funny boy," she said. "I have never understood you very well, and now I am more puzzled than ever. I was afraid that you would be angry when I gave you the reply that I did; instead, you merely dream for a moment and then almost say that you are glad I refused you. It makes me wonder --"
"Yes," he interrupted, "we all do that at times."
And he looked again toward the west.
But the tearful eye of night was closed, and in the fluffy clouds of her hair, a single star sparkled in jewel-like splendor.
SIC PASSIM
CREPUSCULAR
HERBERT G. RICKER
As daylight fades to darkness, Dusk stealthily unfolds her loveliness.
Cool, crystal sounds float calmly by; Silver and distinct like stars in the sky.
Soft-grey dusk, with thy quiet beauty, -Lovely, passionless -solemnly we adore thee.
MISS JANIE BOYKIN
ELINOR PHYSIOC
"Bl essed be the tie that binds Our hearts in Christian love."
The elders of the congregation merely observed that Mr. Potter's voice was unusually sonorous that Sunday morning, but "love, love!" rang in the hearts and minds of the young pillars of the church. The pale face of Miss Janie flushed, as Burton Todwell's eyes met hers and repeated the message of the choir. Her long slender fingers clutched nervously at the yellow buds fastened in her slim bosom, and her eye-lids fluttered as she followed her hymnal carefully. Miss Janie was in Sunday array and was well aware of Todwell's stare. She wasn't pretty, her skin was rather sallow, her features inclined to sharpness, and her figure was almost a failure, except for her faultless carriage. Even though thin and pale, Miss Janie was a Boykin, and a Boykin of Weymouth -her tilted chin proclaimed that.
From Todwell's pew an interesting glimpse of dark brown, . wavy hair was visible beneath the brim of a cherry trimmed hat. Miss Janie's hair was almost her best point, except her eyes. Her dark cashmere dress, fa shioned after Miss "Peewee" Smith's best pattern, was not especially becoming. h was too large for her. Her shoes were high and buttoned. Ordinarily, folk would stare at Miss Janie for hours and probably remember her only as "among those present." But this morning, Miss Janie was the prettiest girl in Weymouth. Heretofore, Miss Janie's lineaments and adornments had been the acme of unconsciousness of self, but now every little cherry in Miss Janie's bonnet jiggled with the proud consciousness of being under observati on. Miss Janie's tender mouth trembled with the merest suspicion of a simper. The truth is that Miss Janie Boykins of the Boykins of Weymouth, for the first time in ten years, was falling in love. She was remembering that she wasn't old yet, and that he loved her, and as she closed her hymnal with an "Amen," her glorious brown eyes sought for Todwell and told him so.
Deacon Trimble nudged his wife and gave her a meaning glance. The entire town of Weymouth was interested in Miss Janie, "getting her a beau."
"The Lord only knows how 'Big Boy' Boykin would take this 'un when he turned down such as Dr. Brian Woodruff," reflected the deacon as he observed the shy glances of Miss Janie.
"Poor child," mused his wife. "I don't wonder that she's all of a twitter. It's her last chance, if there ever was." Her mind wondered to that Sunday eight years before when Janie had loved a handsome young doctor of plebian family. The town had been all agog over the prospect of their engagement, and it had never recovered from the shock of learning that morning that Mr. Boykin had sent Dr. Woodruff away as being one not worthy to aspire to the hand of a Boykin. This edict of Mr. Boykin had given him the name of "high-brow" in the village, and he had been distrusted for it until his recent death.
The benediction over, the people began to file out of the pews into the long aisles. After church time was visiting time in Weymouth. Miss Janie slipped out of the building and hurried along the quiet street, before the crowd had begun to leave. She was afraid to trust her tell-tale face to the keen eyes of the villagers. She crossed Main Street, resplendent with Fords washed clean and shiny for Sunday, and avoided the hotel, where drummers stranded for the week-end loitered. She did not want to see or be seen. She was afraid of her thoughts. Sighing with relief, she turned up Boykin Lane shaded by borders of tall lilac bushes, which formed a fitting approach for her Georgian home.
On the wide veranda sat three women, her mother, erect though frail, in the wheel chair, and her two elder sisters, Susan and Nancy. Stiff and stately in black satin and lace, sat these women, typical aristocrats. Janie felt almost a sense of shame at her flurried appearance and fluttering heart as she approached their irreproachable calmness and dignity.
"Jane," said her mother, "retire to your room and repair your toilette. You have become most untidy."
"Yes, mother." And Miss Jane, despite her twenty-nine years, obeyed like a child. She had always done so, but never before had that vague resentment gripped her as it then did. She stared in the mirror and smiled a little.
Not for many years had Jane Boykin smiled with such a radiant happiness. She even coquetted a little with herself in the glass.
"Sweetheart, I love you." Yes, that was what he had said to her. They had met in the rose arbor, and he had asked her to marry
him. Jane quivered with a thrill upon remembering it. So -she wasn't old after all; a man could love her still! She closed her eyes in a sort of ecstasy.
* * * * * *
May is the prettiest time of the year in Virginia. Early roses clambored over the arbor-like entrance to the Boykin home. Pale pink, red, yellow, and : white, they unfolded and held the cold, clear dew. Not a sound could be heard in the garden, save the faint chirp of a bird and the mournful song of a negro in a distant cabin. Weymouth was not quite ready to open its eyes. The mahoganypaneled door of the house swung open, and Miss Janie stepped out into the summer morning. It was not the Miss Janie, prim and severe, who rang the school bell at ten minutes of nine. This Miss Janie had evidently dressed in unusual haste. Her hair was loosely gathered into a knot on the nape of her neck. The morning breeze faintly stirred the tendril-like ringlets about her face. Instead of the usual trim white shirtwaist and skirt, Miss Janie wore a soft, clinging white house dress. In one hand she carried a huge pair of shears, in the other, a large basket.
On the threshold she paused, one hand on the brass doorknob, and sniffed the sweet spring air, smiling joyously. Then, in a determined manner, she began to cut the roses. Long stemmed roses, short stemmed roses, full-blown and in bud, every color and every kind were speedily guillotined by Miss Janie's merciless little hand. It was standing thus, amid the piles of fallen flowers, that a queer thing happened to Miss Janie. She felt herself blush, felt that she was being observed, and for a moment dared ' not turn her head.
"Good morning!" said a tenor voice in a pleasant tone. Miss Janie turned to meet the gaze of two blue eyes. The eyes were rather attractive and belonged to a young man of perhaps thirty who leaned against her garden gate. He seemed to have been there for an indefinite length of time.
"Oh -good morning!" responded Miss Janie rather stupidly while she stared at him as if to decide whether he had dropped from the skies or sprung from the soil.
"May I have a rose? You seem to have more than enough, and I need one desperately." Without a word Miss Janie handed him a rose. A man, asking her for a rose in that tone! Miss Janie glanced furtively toward the house. Perhaps she should run.
"What are you going to do with all these?" continued the man.
"It's Decoration Day. Didn't you know?" And here Miss Janie surprised herself by smiling at her companion. He had made a mistake; he thought she was a young girl; Miss Janie pitied him.
"No, I didn't," said her visitor. "I am from the North. May I come in?" He opened the gate and walked up the garden path.
Miss Janie paled. Here was a strange person indeed. What was she smiling at him for! Why, it is not known, but smile she did, nevertheless.
He was not very tall, and was a little too fat, but he had a neat appearance. She liked his smile she decided. Was it a gold tooth he had ? Or was she mistaken ?
"Burton Todwell's my name. I am here on business for the Stuyvessant Bond Corporation." He said this as if she were a bank president, and she was subdued by his change of tone. He thought she was an old maid after all!
"It is rather early to make a business call," murmured Miss Janie. "The call I'm making now is one for pleasure," he laughed.
It was done. Miss Janie Boykin had a beau!
Because Miss Janie had the conviction - a rightful one - that her family could not understand her friendship with Mr. Todwell, the romance which began in the garden that morning was carried on by clandestine meetings and shy glances across the church.
Todwell had seen Miss Janie Boykin not with the prejudiced eyes of Weymouth, which had accepted her as a confirmed old maid for the past five years. He could see the smiling young woman of that May morning behind the severe demeanor of the school mistress. And, since she was a unique experience to him, he let himself fall into the affair. Then, too, both her name and family homestead pleased him.
Todwell gradually revolutionized Jane's life in the month he spent in and near Weymouth. He had chosen Weymouth as his headquarters for that district. Miss Janie began to realize that she had been utterly alone until he came. She began to see that she had no friends of her age, who were unmarried. Her schoolmates had homes and interests of their own, and could not find the time to care for an old-maid school teacher.
Miss Janie now took a new interest in them. She loved to visit them, hold their babies, and hear them talk of clothes, husbands, and house work. She began to fix her hair in a more becoming manner. And, as a tremendous concession to the new state of things,
JANIE BOYKIN
she bought a box of face powder. All this was very delightful, but something happened which blurred her vision of happiness.
One evening she sat in her little room opening off the parlor, where her sister was entertaining a visitor. Miss Janie was correcting a pupil's composition, and the task required concentration. However, her heart throbbed violently, and she listened intently when Burton Todwell became the subject for criticism.
"They say he and those drummers carouse something terrible at the hotel."
"I am not surprised," responded Miss Susan's quiet voice. "He seems rather loud to me. I have seen him several times at church."
"His ties are loud enough Young Betty Chapman told me he carries on right much with Ruth Wilson."
"Loud," "carousing," "Ruth Wilson!" Miss Janie blushed until her cheeks were like fire. Why, he couldn't be like that, she tried to persuade herself, while even as she did so, came the memory of his striped suit , brilliant tie, and huge seal ring. "Carousing," the word conveyed the picture of Todwell, with his heavy features and form, standing in the hotel lobby with the drummers. "Ruth Wilson," that common girl, daughter of the garage man. Poor Miss Janie trembled violently, and pushed away her papers with a nervous hand. Oh-he couldn't be a man like that! Why, he was so gentle and chivalrous! How tenderly had he kissed her hand when she had confessed her love for him! No, she wouldn't believe it. He was her sweetheart!
Miss Janie stepped into the parlor. There, in the lamplight, sat her sister and the village gossip. From over the fireplace stared the portrait of her father, a tall, austere man with conventional sideburns. For a moment Miss Janie imagined his eyes shone with scorn for her plebean tastes.
"Jane, would you mind getting mother some medicine at the drug store?" asked Miss Susan. Without a word Janie went for her hat. Anything to get away from that atmosphere.
"Jane," called her mother. "Wear a wrap."
"Yes, mother." And Janie ·went out into the summer night. She went down the lane, through the sweet-smelling lilacs and mimosa, out to the lighted street, crowded with the usual town loafers.
"Oh, to be rid of this town!" cried Jane Boykin to herself. "I hate it! Oh, to be free!" As she passed the hotel a burst of laughter floated from the porch. Miss Janie's lip quivered. Todwell
and Ruth Wilson were there together. She wouldn't marry a man like that! And, holding her head a little higher, she entered the drug store.
While waiting to be served, she became aware of whispers and tittering among a group of young girls at the soda fountain. "He's out with Ruth now." "Don't you reckon she feels bad?" Miss Janie turned away. They should not see her tears. "Poor thing, you might know she'd be kicked." Miss Janie paid her bill and stumbled out of the store. "Kicked!" that was what they had said before. She couldn't stand it again! She would marry him. He was her sweetheart. Anything to get away from that town and the pity of those silly girls.
It was when Burton met her late that night, that, casting all doubts and reasonings aside, she promised to marry him. They were to elope Sunday night. He would meet her in the arbor and they would drive to the nearest city and be married.
This was Sunday, and she was to be married that night. Miss Janie smiled happily as she rose to go to dinner. Not an old-maid school teacher any longer, and freedom from the town! Yes, he did love her, and he was all right. She had let herself be influenced too much by her family. She would not be bound by aristocratic ideas; she would have the freedom of a married woman! How Weymouth would palpitate tomorrow morning! "Kicked!" Mrs. Burton Todwell. Here Miss Janie, in her old-fashioned way, blushed, and, giving herself a little shake, went down to dinner.
It was the last dinner she'd ever have at Boykin Lane. She looked around at the silver candlesticks and lace tablecloth, at her mother, stately and handsome behind the silver coffee service. For some reason or other, a lump came in Miss Janie's throat.
"Dear," said Mrs. Boykin, "how was Mr. Warren's sermon this morning?" For the first time in her life Miss Janie could not remember the text. She coughed violently, and knocked over her glass of water. It had to be passed over somehow!
"Jane, you are not well. I was sure of it." Miss Nancy looked at her sister in a troubled manner.
"I am quite well, thank you, Nancy. Perhaps I am tired." The rest of the meal was consumed in peace.
Miss Janie went to her room and spent the entire afternoon in primping and surreptiously packing her suitcase. A queer emotion seized her as she realized that it was her last afternoon at home. This
was the room she had occupied ever since she had been able to remember. The four-post bed, rag rugs, and mahogany dressing table had belonged to many a Boykin before her. Where would she be the following day? She almost shuddered.
At half-past ten that evening Jane Bopkin left her sisters and mother to go to the rose garden to meet her lover. The scent of flowers filled the air, and the moonlight cast a white sheen over the garden. Janie waited radiant and tremulous. A crunch of gravel announced his approach. Miss Janie's eyes shone with a light divine. Was it love or the hope of freedom that they reflected?
"My darling!" cried the man, and Miss Janie was in his arms, half-suffocated by his embrace. The odor of whiskey caused her to try to extricate herself, but he caught her to him, and kissed her again and again. All the years of Miss Janie's virgin life protested and again she tried to break away, sick with disgust and fear.
The man, half-drunk, and excited with the pride of conquest, would not let her go.
"Come," he said between kisses. "Let us go. Let us get away. Hurry! Why, what's the matter?"
"Never mind," said Miss Janie in a strange stifled voice. "I cannot marry you. You must go." She stood, pale, in the moonlight.
"Why -damn it!" cried the man. "You can't play with me like this. You have promised to marry me tonight." He tried to catch her in his arms, but she evaded him.
"You must go," she repeated in that queer, calm way. "I cannot marry you."
"You are crazy, girl!" laughed Todwell. "Don't you love me?"
Jane flinched, but in quiet tones she answered. "No, I do not know how to love, and now I find that I cannot learn. Will you go?" She opened the gate, and held it open.
Dumfounded, the man went out. Miss Janie stood there in the moonlight, and listened to his footsteps crunch, crunch, down the lane until she could hear them no longer. Then, she passed her hand over her forehead in a weary way. On her ears rang the words of the flapper -ever so faintly, "Poor thing, you might know she'd be kicked." Miss Janie laughed a little -or was it a sob? Suddenly, she looked down the lane. Yes, he was gone !
"Janie, come in, dear. It is getting too damp out there."
"Yes, mother." And Miss Janie Boykin of the Boykins of Weymouth-or was it the old maid school teacher? -turned her face to the light, lifted her chin, entered, and closed the door.
CORRESPONDENCE
Walnut Lodge, Virginia, May 10, 1925.
Editor THE MESSENGER, University of Richmond, Virginia.
My Dear Sir:
Your recent letter requesting an article for THE MESSENGERwas forwarded to me here at Walnut Lodge, where I have been resting this past fortnight. It is possible that you have remarked my extended absence from the academic atmosphere of Westhampton. And then, again, it is quite possible that you have not. At any rate, here I am, lolling about the sylvan scenes of this section of old Albemarle, grooming myself for the Spring slaughter -alias, Senior Exams. The reasons for my present rural excursion are two : the completion of four ( 4) term papers, and ( a consequence of this endeavor) the strict injunction of my family physician to abjure the delights of academic pursuits and betake myself to the country. I have betaken myself to the country, and there lead a duly simple life, consisting chiefly in eating, sleeping and wandering far afield, etc. Despite these mundane activities, however, I have dashed off a litle something, which I am sending you herewith. The inspiration sprang out of a certain pastoral episode which but recently occurred, or, for that matter, is still in the process of occurring hereabouts. It is hoped that I may supply you the final details very shortly over a chocolate shake at "Jack's." Until then, adios.
Your sinecere,
CUTHBERTWHOOSIS.
MEDITATIONS LIQUIDES
CUTHBERT WHOOSIS
"In extended observation of the ways and works of man, From th e Four-mil e Rad iu s roughly to the Plains of Hindustan, I have drunk with mixed assemblies. ."
-Kipling
Introspection is a dangerous pastime. On a recent excurs10n into the psyche I uncovered a very distressing fact. It is this: I have become sadly immune to enthusiasm. Whatever the cause may be - old age, prohibition, weltschmerz -the cold, bare truth remains no longer is the old pulse easily stirred. Jazz music, popular magazines, radio, movies, Billy Sunday, ministerial crises in Europe, rolled stockings, the Russian Soviet, Mussollini, baseball, and such fauna fail to arouse my vaso-motor system to the point of palpitation.
And yet, after all, among the many colorful scenes that make up this grey, grim comedy, there must surely be some which have not quite lost their savor, some which can still creep beneath the hide of this once easily thawed glacier: Moonlight . Amelita Galli-Curci poems by A. Newberry Choyce ram on tin roofs the Marseillaise fresh milk.
There we strike a major chord. Did I possess the divine afflatus to sufficient degree it would move me to lyric song, would this glo~ rious, foaming, white liquid. But it must be the real stuff. None of your canned, boiled, stewed, powdered, condensed, malted, evaporated, sterilized, pasteurized, peptonized, or otherwise man-handled concoctions will do. Here you will find me a true son of Epicurus. Only the fresh, raw article merits that imperial designation, Milk.
This chill, chalky stuff they serve you in the cities? Do you call that milk? Alas! Should this be the extent of your lacteal experience, then truly, your life has been wasted. But if you would sip of the beverage which, lotus-like, effaces all thought of Monsieur Volstead, come to Walnut Lodge come, then, to Walnut Lodge.
Daybreak. The lane goes through an apple orchard, past a tall green hedge. Madame, my hostess, armed with stool and pail, moves briskly th_rough t~f ,mist. I follow / J11,~ianfashion, I follow, my nervous city leg Jer - ¥tto~~ th fbuWtJf ~et ,v,ass. I , too, am armed. A vessel of thin~/~ ,:;ecuf~Ji,p )fly right hand. . On the hill-top, facing _the 4 p~Ce 'f§'Jj,, "ff arrive. We ar-
nve at the Mecca of our matutui,r }i(Gj}v ~.tlf/~{) A, ,
And there, standing beside a noble beast, whose forbears once roamed the Isle of Jersey, I watch, with tears of gladness in my soul, with tears of hunger in my throat, as the dear lady milks into my glass -directly into the glass, mark you -a foaming stream of the wondrous, white fluid. With eager hands I seize the holy grail and bury my lustful lips deep , deep into the soft, sweet foam. Slowly, slowly I sip it. Each heavenly drop must yield the last faint trace of delicate flavor. A person who gulps milk will wear flannel underwear, admire the opuses of Harold Bell Wright, or believe in the dogma of infant damnation.
With vastly better success than Oliver Twist ever had, I present my glass for more. Then again: for more. And again. And then, I find my soul climbing to ineffable heights of happiness as the marvelous, white liquid descends lightly into the gastronomic laboratory, to be there converted into blood, tissue, thought , and such foolish expressions of energy as this article.
And then, and then, beneath; the caress of this Olympian nectar comes that ancient friend, Association of Ideas. Association of Ideas who rummages about in the old, rusty lockers of Memory dragging forth long-forgotten scenes, little pleasant moments that were, little moments of liquescent happiness.
the bottle of Asti on the three green and white towns green and white mountains smudge on the edge of the sea:
balcony at a Turbie a tiny blue harbor blue sky a dark Corsica.
Old Provence springtime soms a broken tower on a hill at twilight huge golden omelets sweet, yellow cider. . apple bloswalks in the forest rare green salads
Aveluy Wood, near Albert nocturnal patrols flares mud, mud, mud 77s dawn barbed wire . . snipers
London Scotti sh in the cellar of a ruined cha-
Big Berthas omnious silence fagged , wet, hungry a steaming pot of tea with the teau.
Villefranche the Moorish quarter the tiny gla ss of curious, green liqueur Odette.
Christmas eve in Burgundy egg nog Maman beating the yolks Pere Dupin spanking the whites the little servant everywhere the French adjutant deeply interested Monsieur Whoosis tenderly stirring a fabulously rare quart of old, old rum into a gallon of new, fresh milk.
hot chocolate thin, pale, sweetish, in Y huts dark, rich, creamy for breakfast in bed at French hotels.
the peculiar, yellow digestif to which our landlady always treated after a seven franc dinner.
hot rum and roast pork sandwiches in Touraine, on chilly evenings in April.
Nice der the arcade tion from Thais"
the Colombo cocktails at Vogarde's unthe pretty violincelliste "Meditathe bottle of Pouilly we send the orchestra the roses we send the violin - the last evenmg celliste.
Thanksgiving Day, '18 the thirty-seven kilometres in the rain, on foot the holiday dinner: a wedge of bread, some cold beans, one glorious, hot can of coffee.
beverages hot, cold, warm, so-so spiced, tasteless red, yellow, green, indigo sweet, bitter, aperatif s before meals, digestifs after meals, any old thing at meals cod-liver oil, Castoria , paregoric Coca-Colas in back rooms of drug stores in Virginia towns on Sunday mornings beef tea Duffy's Pure Malt Whiskey barley water
sumik Seltzer lemonade at lawn parties given by the B. Y. P. U. . ginger ale White Rock Bromothe water in the tank of the Eighth Baptist Church.
We now direct the baton toward the bass drum and the viols. The motif shifts to tragedy; dull, dismal tragedy. It concerns Bessie, the gentle bovine at whose shrine' I was wont to worship each sunlit morn. Yesterday, the veterinary came to these pleasant green pastures to treat one of her relatives. Bessie stood close by. Bessie coughed. The hoss doctor immediately left his patient and commenced a tremendous thumping and prodding
about the pulmonary section of my animated lunch room. A supergrave expression crept over his professionally mournful countenance. And then, and then, came the horrible truth the smashing truth .the devasting truthBessie has the T. B.
It is not the bacteria I regret. The billions of bacteria. By no means. I scorn them. I laugh in their ugly faces. I grow fat upon them. (Two pounds the past week.) But those delightful matutinal orgies are finished finished And yet, a single, slender hope is left us. The diagnosis may be wrong. A few days, now, and the tuberculin test will render its final verdict. In the meantime I wait, tremulously wait my heart filled with tears, my stomach filled with water.
If she is pronounced without sin, our Bessie, I will make the appropriate sacrifice to Olympus. If they massacre her, I shall plant rosemary about her tomb, and violets.
QUERY
A.H. T.
A whole year without you I have lived, and been so happy. All my heart was gone - no feeling Was there. I just smiled and took things lightly. Happy? Yes. So free from sorrow.
Now the year is gone. I wonder Have I really been so happy? With my heart's ease and no feeling Of the deeper joys of sorrow? I did love -but I forgot you ; Lived a whole year free without youBut it's spring now, and I wonder Do I want you back again?
THE LAST QUESTION
CHARLES Y. McDANIEL
"Remember, my son, that a journey of a thousand miles begins with one step, and you are leaving the home of your ancestors in the pursuit of wisdom and honor, even as I and my father and all of our noble line of ance stors have before you. When you arrive in Peking go to the hou se of my friend Ming. There you will find a welcome that is sincere as it is warm . Therefore , my son, for the honor o f the family of Lin, long famoused for excellence in literary pursuits, go forth to learn, and to succeed, so that some day your sons can tell their children that their grandfather was one whom the Emperor delighted to honor."
"I shall remember your wise counsel, my father, and shall endeavor to acquit myself well in the examinations, for the greater honor of my illustrious forbears, if so unworthy a youth as I could possibl y add to their honor and public esteem." With these words I was borne away to a house-boat which awaited my arrival at the city gate.
My journey to the capital was slow and very tiring to me, for I have never been physically strong. Since my early childhood I have done nothing but study the classics. Musty old books have been my toys and near-sighted scholars my companions. From morning until night I have read and memorized the writings of the sages, but only recently have I come to understand much of what I read. Yet, have I always been fond of learning, and my venerable father has often told me that to be fond of learning is to be at the gate of knowledge.
It was in the late evening of a day, some two weeks after our departure from home, that we arrived at the capital. We entered the city by the Chien gate . A great throng pressed about me; beggars, rich merchants, stalwart Tartars and coated mandarins mingled in the street, and had I not had the address of my father's friend safely tucked away in my girdle I would have felt hopelessly lost. Even with this assurance I must confess that I was somewhat bewildered, for, in the southern city of my birth, the inhabitants are all of the same people and all speak the same soft-toned language. I stopped at the first tea shop I saw and inquired as to the whereabouts of the mandarin Ming. The proprietor of the shop became at once
solicitous when I mentioned the name of my host, and immediately summoned a servant who was told to conduct me to my destination. I thanked the man,and my porters and I set off with our guide at once.
I was graciously received by my host. After a bountiful repast I was conducted to my apartment. The following morning I was up early, for I wished to spend the two days before the Imperial Examinations in making a final and thorough review of the required books. I was surprised to find that my host had arisen even earlier than I had. After the customary salutations we walked out in the central courtyard together. There the mandarin Ming addressed me in the following words :
"I was a, young man of about your years when I took the Imperial Examinations. The morning after my arrival at the capital I, too, arose with the sun and commenced studying. All the day long I pored over what seemed to me to be the most likely passages, and by night fall I was thoroughly tired out and well nigh discouraged, for the more I studied the more I realized how little I really knew. Now I see wherein I was wrong. It was true that I won high honors, but I might have won the highest honor had my mind been clear and rested. Now, as the son of my old and much-admired friend, I would advise you to spend the day in viewing the different famous sights of the capital, and on the morrow I would suggest that you go to my summer home in the hills outside of the city. There you will be unbothered and at your leisure, and to be entirely at leisure for one day is to be for one day an immortal."
I expressed my surprise, but told my host that I would do as he advised. Certainly an elderly scholar was wiser than I.
I must con£ess that it was not without some misgivings that I went sight-seeing that day. In fact, if my knowledge of the famous capital were based upon that one day of sight-seeing, it would be no knowledge at all. I may have seen the different palaces and buildings, but I carried away no remembrances of the happenings of the day.
The following day, at my host's country home, my mind was still occupied with the thought of the coming examinations. Then I thought of my home and of my friends, but most of all I thought of my old father and of the anxiety which he must have been feeling over the outcome of the examination. Examination - couldn't I forget the word ? It certainly seemed to me to be impossible. If I could only win the highest honor than I would be appointed to some
important governmental position, and would be, like my ancestors before me, an object of veneration and respect. All of this time I had been wandering about the gardens of the place. Like all such gardens , this one was surrounded on all four sides by high walls. I had by this time reached the lower end of the park and was on the point of turning around to retrace my steps when I caught sight of a bit of color at a small oval window high up in the wall in front of me. I soon decided that the color was that of a silk sleeve, and being of a curious nature, I hid myself behind a pile of rocks to await further developments. The sleeve kept moving slowly back and forth, so I concluded that the owner of the sleeve was working at an embroidery frame. This thought pleased me, for, I thought, perhaps this lady will be more beautiful than the silk pattern upon which she is working. I did not have long to wait, for then, instead of a silk sleeve, a face appeared at the window, and what a face! The beautiful pattern of the sleeve was forgotten, and I must confess that even the Imperial Examinations themselves faded from my conscious state. In my eagerness I almost let out a cry, but fortunately stopped myself in time, for at the first sound the face would have disappeared. I remained in my cramped position for I knew not how long, nor did I care. Now that I think of it, I must have been bewitched, for, even though I had come from a city noted for its beautiful women, I had never beheld such a vision of beauty. Time and again I was on the point of speaking, but each time my reason came to my aid to remind me that a true gentlewoman could not, and would not speak to a strange man. Then the face disappeared from my view and the window was shut. For some time I continued to stare at the place where the dream face had appeared. Finally the cramped condition of the muscles of my legs brought me back to a realization of things material.
On the way back to the city my only thoughts wen ~ of the lady of the window, her beauty, her exquisiteness; in fact, every shade of expression which had passed over her visage during the time of my secret observation. I wondered who she could be, what her name was, and a thousand other questions which my heart prompted me to ask of myself.
* * * * * *
I arrived at the Hall of Examination at the appointed time and took my seat in the large waiting room. There were some twenty
or thirty young men in the room. Some were talking together, others sat upright in their chairs and looked straight in front of them as if afraid to trust themselves to speak, while still others fidgeted with their hats and tapped their feet against their chairs. I was so busy noting the appearance of my fell ow competitors that I failed to note my own actions or expressions. Finally it came my turn to appear before the Board of Examiners. I was ushered into their august presence by an attendant. Afer a few summary questions I presented my credentials to the chief examiner who in turn showed them to the other members of the board. Then, in the presence of this group of scholars, I was thoroughly searched for manuscripts or notes which might have been concealed upon my person. Nothing of a suspicious nature was found and I was deemed worthy to compete for the Imperial award. An attendant then conducted me down a long passageway into which many narrow doors opened. The doors were all numbered and some were already closed. My guide stopped at door No. 27, and handed me a sealed packet which, he told me, contained the examination questions. The room was small, so small, in fact, that it was nothing more than a stall. Inside there was a table and a chair, and on the table were writing materials. What little light there was in the room came through a small barred window high up in the wall. I turned around to question the attendant further as to the rules of the examination, but: found that he had left the room and was at that very moment locking the door of my stall. I had known beforehand that this would be the case, but I must confess to a certain feeling of helplessness and despair. In fact, it was several minutes before I collected myself sufficiently to sit down and open the packet.
The questions were very much what I had expected them to be. There were several passages to interpret, and I was required to write at length, from memory, upon the Analects of Confucius. Thanks to my early training I had no difficulty with these memory passages. I had, by this time, been working for several hours and I was becoming somewhat elated at the ease with which my mind responded to the questions. I have always made it a rule for myself, when taking examinations, to focus my entire attention upon the question immediately concerning me. Thus I save myself a deal of worry and confusion. So confident was I of success that before reading over the last question I arose out of my seat and leisurely stretched myself. I even began to picture to myself the day when I
would return to my home and be welcomed by my father as a worthy scion of a scholarly family.
Then I resumed my seat and prepared my paper and pen to answer the last question. I had answered the preceding questions with such facility that it had never occurred to me that I would find any difficulty in thinking out the last question, so I picked up the list and read the last question with a certain accompanying feeling of having done well the task in hand. But surely the question I saw before me was incorrect. Why, there must have been some mistake! Did my eyes deceive me? No ! There it was, in wellformed, carefully written characters, "Write an original poem on Silver Bells, preserving the classical methods as proscribed by the scholars and sages of ancient times."
Silver Bells. What did it mean? Perhaps some classical writer of yore had written a poem upon such a subject, but try as I might I could not recollect any such work. The only time I . had ever heard of a verse upon any such subject was that of a wretched street ballad singer, and certainly his doggerrel would not be appropriate for the Imperial Examinations. Success, which but a moment ago seemed to be in my very grasp, was now irretrievably lost. I, who had hoped to bring fresh honor to the name of Lin, would now bring only disgrace and shame to that illustrious line of scholars whose name I bore. How could I approach my old father after having miserably failed on the examinations? The standard of excellence in the Imperial Examinations was so high that to miss a single question meant utter failure. My consternation soon gave away to despair, and one who has lost all hope is likely to do most anything. Then I thought of the face I had seen at the oval window the day before and my shame only burned deeper, for now I could never hope to even make the acquaintance of the one who now meant everything in my life. A foolish idea came to me, but considering the despair that I was in, it was not so foolish after all. My pen was in my hand, and the paper prepared; why should I not write, for my own satisfaction if never for her's, an expression of my admiration and deep affection for her, the only maid I had ever loved. My long study of the classics naturally inclined me towards the best classical mode of expressing such a feeling as I wished to reveal, so I began writing of my love much in the same manner that a certain poet of the Han dynasty had written of a lady he had seen but once and loved. Every expression of the dream face was as clear in my mind as if
I had been at that very moment behind the pile of rocks looking at her there in the window. I wove into my poem all that I remembered and much more that I imagined to be true. I don't know how long I wrote, but night came on and a certain drowsiness came over me. There my memory fails me.
It was daylight, and from the sounds I heard in the street I judged that it was morning. As I became fully possessed of my mental faculties I wondered how I happened to be in my room at the house of my host, the mandarin Ming, for the last place I remembered having been in was that accursed box in the Examination Hall, and then the thought of my failure and disgrace came to me, and all thought of how I happened to be in my room was crowded out by my desire to get away from the house, for I was firmly resolved to go to some quiet place and there commit myself to the mercy of the gods like any true gentleman would do under similar circumstances. However, I was not quick enough in executing my plan, for the door opened and my host entered. If he noticed anything unusual in my expression he paid no attention to it. Neither did he show any sign of having heard of my shameful failure on the examination, for he greeted me most cordially, and then as if in answer to my unspoken question told me that I had been brought from the Examination Hall in a delirious condition, and that for two whole days I had been in a high fever. Not a word did he say of the examination, but soon left me with instructions to stay quietly in my room for the remainder of the day. It was true that the fever had gone, but it had left me in a weakened condition. I, of course, abandoned my plan to leave immediately, but nothing could shake me in my determination to go as soon as my health would permit it.
The following morning I was awake early, and was trying to decide whether to make my escape when the door opened and again my host entered. This time he was accompanied by an official wearing the insignia of the Imperial Household. I collected myself sufficiently to make the customary salutations, and then waited for my host to explain matters. He merely said : "Arise, my friend, and prepare yourself for the Imperial Audience."
I must have made some sign of having heard, for I was then left alone in the room. I had no notion of why the Emperor wished to
see me, but I knew that there was nothing left for me but to obey the royal summons.
I was accompanied to the palace of my host. We had to wait for some minutes in the ante-room, but not one word of explanation would the mandarin give me. Then a liveried attendant came to the door and called our names. I hardly know how I managed to cross the great hall and prostrate myself before His Imperial Majesty, for fear and wonder mingled together in such a way as to completely unnerve me. We were bidden to rise and then, for the first time, I noticed that the room was crowded with people, most of whom had the appearance of scholars. Immediately to my left was no other than the Chief Examiner, who was looking straight at me in a manner not at all scornful. I was completely bewildered, for every one from the Emperor clown to the holder of the Imperial Sceptre was looking at me. Then the Chief Examiner bowed low before the Emperor and explained that the examinations had been held according to the Imperial Edict and that the name of the winner of the highest award was contained in the sealed envelope that he would presently give to His Excellency to open. Having thus spoken the envelope was given to the Emperor, who after having opened it, rose to his feet and said:
"Let all honor him who has this day shown himself to be the peer of the whole company of the younger scholars of this enlightened Empire. To him I give the vice-royalty of the province of Hunan and the badge of the Imperial Order of Superior Scholars. Wu, son of the noble family of Lin, step forward."
I was suddenly seized with a certain feeling of lethargy, and had it not been for a gentle push from my host I do not think that I would have ever been able to advance. Before I was presented with the badge the Chief Examiner again stepped forward and begged to be allowed a few words on the behalf of the Examining Board. This permission was granted and the old scholar commenced:
"The examination was, this year, strictly according to the custom of former years, except in the last question. It is usual for the competitors to be asked to write an original poem, but on some conventional subject. This year, however, we thought that it would be well to require a poem to be written on an abstract subject, thus testing the contestant's creative ability. The required subject was Silver Bells, and the winning poem was written with such ardor, emotion and tragic beauty as is worthy of the great poets of antiquity,
and yet it evinced the utmost original reality. In fact, it almost seemed to me that the author must have seen or known my daughter, who bears the name of Silver BeUs. But that would be impossible, as my daughter has, for the last month, been staying with her aunt at their summer home in the hills outside of the city. The imagery was so perfect that the board unanimously decided in favor of the young gentleman standing before Your Majesty, and I have decided to give the young poet a chance to compare his written description with the actual person of his dream. Then, perhaps, he will change his poem of tragic sadness to one of joy and gladness."
NOSTALGIA
CHACK KWONG WONG
I am alone in this foreign land, And once a month a letter comes to me. When shall I touch again my native strand Where the sun lifts crimson out the sea?
RATHER QUEER
loNE STUESSY
Queer - that's what he was, just sort of queer. That was what Aunt Martha had said that very morning. He had heard her . Oh, yes - he had heard the whole conversation. They hadn't known that he was there, but he was.
"Why, Mis s Martha ," Mrs. Bates had said. "I can't understand wh y Muriel should be home again from school. He hasn't been sick, has he?"
"No - well no, not exactl.y" He could see Aunt Martha blush now.
"Well, of course, it isn't any of my affairs, but as long as we've been such good friends, I hope that he hasn't got himself into any trouble It can't be his• lessons; he always was sort of smart in his lessons.
Smart , that's what they all said-just as though it were the only half-way nice thing that could be said. Not attractive , nor manly, nor nice - just smart. Well, he'd show them if he were smart or not. But what had been Aunt Martha's reply? Oh yes, he remembered.
"That's just the strange part of it all, Jessie . His father and I have just done everything in the world to bring him up right, but we seem to have failed. We thought that finally he was doing well at school and now he is back again in disgrace. One of his professors reprimanded him for inattention and Muriel was extremely impertinent. Dear, dear , I don't know what we shall do with him," and then she had cried a bit. Funny, wasn't it, that she cried when he came home and not when he went away, as the other fellows' folks did. His mother had cried once when he was a tiny child. Some one had told him thati she might go away soon and he had gone to her in a panic of terror, all his five-year-old being in numb agony. She had held him so tightly and he had loved her precious tears. She had called him Baby Boy or Murry-little pet names like that. Aunt Martha always said Muriel-so cold and impersonal it sounded. Aunt Martha was awfully good to him, he supposed-she had taken care of him ever since mother really had gone away. Taken care of him - that is, she had taken care of his meals and clothes and helped him with his lessons.
"Yes," she had continued to Mrs. Bates, "he always has been queer. You know he never would play with other children and he's always hanging around his old grandmother. She just spoils him until he is good for nothing. That's what I told John, that he has been given his own way too much and never has been trained properly. If he had been brought up as I wanted him to be, he never could have been so rude to Dr. Hechler. He called him an old foolright to his face!"
How shocked Mrs. Bates had been at that! He was glad he had clone it though. No man had a right to call him an idiot just becau se he wasn't listening to the lesson. Right before the whole class , too! He had seen some violets and they had made him think of mother's eyes - and then that fool teacher had called on him.
He slumped on clown the street in gloomy unhappy contrast to the peaceful village bathed in the rosy glow of sunset. A little boy with an old man's face. His old acquaintances passed on in the street. Some he ignored, gazing fixedly at the pavement. Others he looked brazenly in the eye, meeting their half-veiled curiosity, pity and contempt with a devil-may-care look that almost rang true. Jack and Bill were different, though, and he promised to spend the evening with them. Probably they were just sorry for him, but anyway he'd go. They had always been good kids.
That night his father ignored him at supper. Mr. Tichenor was an honest, good-hearted man who was deeply disappointed and decidedly puzzled by his son. He had done so much for Muriel, never denied the boy anything that he had wanted, no - not even that expensive chemical set he had seemed to want so much. Muriel had really showed great promise in that direction. And now he was disgraced. To think of a boy sixteen years old presuming to talk back to a professor sixty-five. His son - it seemed incredible! And then he had refused to apologize unle ss Dr. Hechler should first ask his pardon. Mr. Tichenor sighed deeply and served his son in silence. He had tried to show his disapproval by not writing to him. Perhaps now, a little sternness would show the son how humiliated his father felt. So Muriel was left in dumb oblivion-except, of course, for grandma. She smiled kindly at the boy and urged upon him all the dainties of the table. Grandma never thought him queer. She almost seemed to like him. Maybe that was because she was so old. No one else was like that.
After supper Muriel mumbled out that he was going to Jack's and off he tore, leaving black, questioning looks unheeded. Probably they thought he was going to get drunk again, he thought bitterly. Once at Jack's, however, he felt strangely more peaceful. Not that he was happy -oh, no! but a quiet numbness took the place of the aching misery. Mrs. Walters was very kind and so were the boys. Little Jane, a demure, sweet maid of fourteen, sent a ray of sunshine into his darkened heart by her happy welcome to the friend of her brothers. Her eyes were so blue and almost -almost she looked like mother. He choked a bit and stayed the closer to the girl. Maybe she would stroke his hair and call him sweet names if he were real, real nice to her. So when the boys proposed a game, he left them alone and stayed quietly by Jane's side, watching them. Not a word did he say, not a word could he say, but he was calmed by her very nearness. The child was puzzled -almost annoyed by the devotion of this boy whom everyone thought so strange. Why didn't he say something or smile? He just sat there with dark, staring eyes. Suddenly, moved by a new impulse of pity, she laid her white hand against his dusky hair. The effect was startling. Muriel sprang to his feet and passionately caught her hand and pressed it against his heart. Little Jane was frightened and withdrew a step -just enough to let the darkness come back into the boy's eyes.
"Oh, Muriel," she tried to laugh it off. "You frightened me so. You look so -so queer."
He flung her hand from him with a violence that drew from her a tiny scream and then he turned and lurched into the street once more. Queer -that was what she had said.
Home again. Grandmother was in bed and so was Aunt Martha. His father was waiting for him. That the boy knew, although the man did not turn from his reading at the sound of his son's step. Timidly, Muriel addressed his father. "Good-night, father." Was there a sob in his throat? Mr. Tichenor could not tell, nor did he suspect the huskiness to be due to that. The boy had been up to some mischief and was trying to hide it. But he would have none of that. "Good-night." The words came cold and final without even an accompanying glance. The boy stumbled doggedly to his room.
Mr. Tichenor was startled a few minutes later by the sound of a heavy body falling. He rushed to his aged mother's room, but she
THE MESSENGER
was asleep. His sister met him, having been alarmed by the same noise. Together, they sought Muriel's room. The boy lay on the floor - a half-emptied potassium cyanide bottle beside him. "Queer - that's what they said. But I was smart enough to fool them."
The funeral was held the next day. Everyone felt so sorry for the Tichenors, but they all, even little Jane, explained it to their own satisfaction by saying, "Well, you know, he always was rather queer." And perhaps ' he was - rather queer.
MY OPAL
HARRIET SHARON
My opal holds Memories of priceless things
The trembling throat of a bird as he sings, The shadows a willow-tree makes, as it swings Its leaves in the sun.
My opal reflects
The smoky film of an autumn haze, The flame and gold of the sun's last rays, The light in Pierrot's eyes as he says Three small words.
BOOK REVIEWS
A NEW DAY FOR THE COUNTRY CHURCH. By Rolvix Harlan, Ph.D. Cokesbury Press, Nashville, Tenn. 1925.
The present writer is under no illusions as to the qualifications needed in a reviewer of a book of this type. Too well does he realize his own deplorable shortages in this field. Unfortunately Dr. Harlan's work came off the press on the day that The Messenger, for the last time this session, went to the printer. And being unwilling that its advent should pass unrem arked in the pages of our college monthly , we have undertaken the task ourselves. Our _ apologies to Dr. Harlan.
In another review in this number of The Messenger we intimate that a certain book, with scant change, could be placed in the hands of anyone, even members of the Ministerial Association. Dr. Harlan's book, with no change whatever, SHOULD be placed in the hands of EVERY member of the Ministerial Association. In fact, it was written to that very end; being, in short, a manual for use in the Pastors' Schools conducted each summer by the M. E. Church, South. Its value, however, is by no means confined to th e rural pr eac her, and we have no hesitation in recommending it to anyone interested in the country life movement. More than onehalf of the volume is given over to the sa ne exposition, based on sound, scientific principles, of rural church org~nization, administration, and finance. These chapters, together with those of the country minister, should prove of great value to the int en ded or actual pastor of a country church; as, of course, will the entire book. Certain chapters, however, are of value and interest to the layman, irrespective of his connection with a rural religious body. Especially the first two, in which, quite hopefully, Dr. Harlan discusses the history and present status of the country church, and the last three , in which "World Problems," "Christian Leadership," and "The Approach to the Country Life Problem" are treated briefly and interestingly
Dr. Harlan, who holds the chair of sociology in the University of Richmond, is particularly well equipped to present the subject of rural churches in the manner in which it is here displayed. Not only has he had wide experience as a minister in rural communities, but also extensive training in the handling of real social problems, having been connected for a number of years with the Northern Baptist Mission Board, in the capacity of Secretary of the Rural Department.
We regret that time and space prevent a more extended discussion of "A New Day for the Country Church," and yet what can we say that has not been more skillfully said by Dr. Harlan? The book is not long, being slightly over one hundred and fifty pages, and will well repay the reading by anyone at all interested in the country life movement. Dr. Harlan presents his subject in his usual clear, vigorous manner, and with his unfailingly, fresh and sane tolerance. We can only repeat that every embryonic preacher and preacher's wife in the University of Richmond should read this latest work on the religious aspect of the rural problem .
THE MESSENGER
Also, a reading by some of the higher intelligentsia, to whom a farmer signifies the sort of person displayed on the boards at Keith's would not be amiss.
-L. L. J.
BLACK Wrnn. By George Reynolds Freed,ley. Printed for private circulation. University of Richmond, Virginia. 1925.
Black Wind is a slender, little volume (how the author will "snort" at this trite description) of some forty pages, bound in heavy, ambercolored, construction board. The work has been neatly achieved on the mimeograph, in the style of type known as elite, and is printed on a good grade of white paper, with large, generous margins. Typographically, the book is a very creditable performance.
Now as to the content. There are thirty-nine poems in Black Wind, varying in length from "E lysia, " which occupies a page and a half, to "Thelma," with its two short lines. In addition to a Table of Contents, there are a colophon, an acknowledgment, a dedication, and a statement that "This edition is limited to thirty numbered, hand-bound copies, signed by the author, and this is No. 3." The dedication is illuminating: "This book is appreciatively dedicated to my parents who cannot honestly be said to hold with all the sentiments expressed therein." . . . We use the word illuminating advisedly. A perusal of Black Wind easily explains why our author's parents cannot honestly be said to hold with all the sentiments expressed therein.
Black Wind is 100% Young Generation. Not only in its utter disregard of punctuation and capitalization, but in the frankness with which its subject matter is treated. The dedication, however, despite its promise of spicy morsels within, need not cause undue alarm. Not even to the dear little Sophomore on Tower Hill who no longer feels she can send her Messenger home to the family. It is true that there is a fair spr inkling of such words as "amorous," "sensuous," and "passionate," together with a few references to legs, hips, breasts and such other very obvious anatomical facts (as Mr. Freedley would say), but, outside of these (if we exclude two hells, and one damn), Black Wind may very safely be put in the hands of any one, including members of the Ministerial Association.
Of the thirty-nine poems contained in Black Wind, only one has been previously published, this being "Elysia," which appeared in The Messenger during the autumn of 1923 and sent the campus "sc urrying helter-skelter to the bleak pages of Webster," in search of the mysterious batiked veil. Few of the remaining thirty-eight please us quite as much as does "Elysia," although a number of them are much better verse than other things published by the author of Black Wind since that time. The subjects of these poems range widely. There are protests against bigotry, portraits
of people and things, impressions of wind, flowers, and rain, an ode to a three-tailed goldfish and one to a yellow emperor butterfly. The goldfish bears quoting:
TO A THREE-TAILED GOLDFISH
in a limpid pool
a three-tailed goldfish swims silently round his world surveys the banks and cooly considers the ineffable advantages of being a three-tailed goldfish
Which, of course, immediately raises the question: "But is that poetry?" In all fairness to the author it must be admitted that he terms his work, not poetry, but verse. Which, of course, immediately raises the question: "But is this verse?" The present reviewer declines to attempt an answer to this much-mooted question, the controversy as to just what constitutes poetry being as hopeless of solution, to the satisfaction of any reasonable number of persons, as is this soft-pedaled topic of evolution, or that even more disturbing query, "Who made God?"
Although we are very much of the mind of Henry Mencken when he says that there is only one kind of poetry, lyric verse, yet we are not by any means hostile to the other varieties, and can honestly inspect them with an unbiased eye. Personally we are in favor of complete liberty in the choice of vehicles for literary expression, providing, of course, that they are fairly intelligible (we admit complete anaesthia to the gurglings of Miss Gertrude Stein) and will not quibble over a definition.
In discussing a piece of writing, only two things are relevant: first, what is the author trying to do; and second, how well has he done it. The color of the gentleman's socks, the brand of shaving cream he uses, or the quality of his enunciation should not enter into the matter at all, as it quite too frequently does in the robustiously prejudiced circles of collegiate criticism. . . . What, then, is Mr. Freedley trying to do? The chorus just mentioned immediately booms: "To be different," "To be clever," "To imitate E. E, Cummings," "He doesn't know, himself," et cetera, et cetera. This, however, gets us nowhere, and leaving aside these fairly general estimates (for, in truth, Mr. Freedley's poetry is caviar to the campus), we will confine ourselves to a purely impersonal inspection of one or more of the poems found in Black Wind.
For instance, we pick at random, "Motif for Debussy":
cool as water from a spring a dank spring in underbrush a pool hidden by a nymph who bathed quite nude cool cool
THE MESSENGER
This poem illustrates the handicap under which free verse, even more than other forms, must labor. That is, visual, rather than oral presentation. Read by the author, the impression received from the above poem is not without a certain pleasantness, a certain satisfaction. In flat, cold type, unsupported by a sympathetic voice, it loses tremendously; the reader, in the vast majority of cases not being able to achieve the same sensation or feeling intended by the author. It is true, however, that one always DOES receive some impression from Mr. Freedley's verse, be it pleasant, unpleasant, or otherwise. We remember distinctly one afternoon when we had the pleasure of reading "Grotesquerie" (a poem by Mr. Freedley which is NOT included in Black Wind-( the little Sophomore, you know-) to a gathering of some fifteen or more of the collegiate litterati. The unanimous gasp which followed was ample proof that the author had succeeded in creating an impression, a rather vivid impression, 111 the minds of the listeners.
And so with a deal of others: "Bigoted Babbitts," recommended to all Jaspers, deacons, and 100 per cent Americans; "Ballad in Jade," which, by the way, is in rhymed verse; "Cycle," also in rhyme, and which we would quote but for lack of space; "Black Wind," which names the book; "Nocturne," "Wind," and "Maison Poiret," the last one of our favorites, and which we fail to quote NOT because of space limitation, but again, that dear little Sophomore on Tower Hill.
A more extended discussion is not possible at this time. If you were unable to secure a copy of the first edition (exhausted, we understand, before publication) we recommend that you get the Library copy and see what Mr. Freedley has been doing in the way of verse since the advent of "Elysia." Your reactions will not be neutral. Black Wind is an interesting venture, and shows, we believe, an advance in the work of our most campus-disturbing poet. It deserves a larger circulation than this first limited edition affords. -L. L. J.
AU CLAIRE DE LA LUNE
W.H.S.
I wonder if the ancient pine, Whose cracked and gnarled arms Stretch high above the sky's blue line, Is reaching for your charms, Oh, Moon?
If I were a tree, whose home Was out beneath that sky, My arms would interlace a poemA poem, whose tune the ripples make, As swallows tip a silver lake On hunt for dragon-fly.
THE MESSENGER
RICHMOND COLLEGE
LESLIE L. JONES ---
M. s. SHOCKLEY --
Editor-in-Chief -- Assistant Editor
W. E. SLAUGHTER---- Assistant Editor
C. B. H. PHILLIPS ----- Bus •ness Manager
W. R. VAIDEN --- Assistant Business Manager
J. L. DILLON --- Assistant Business Manager
WESTHAMPTON COLLEGE
MARGARETHARLAN
VIRGINIA DICKERMAN
ALIS LOEHR ----
GREY ROBINSON---
Editor-in-Chief - Assistant Editor
Business Manager
Assistant Business Manager
(Entered as second class matter in the postoffice at The University of Richmond.)
CAUSERIE EDITORIALE
PLACE AUX DAMES
Those concerned have learned with grief that many a student of the gentler half of the co-ordination has regarded the green face of her college literary utterance, with tear-stained cheeks and remorseful eyes, and admitted to herself that she could not send it home without the gnawing fear that it would create an erroneous picture of academic life to the home town. The fault is found not in the technique of the prose, nor the form of the poetry, but in the subjects which command the literary mind of the campus. The obvious remedy we humbly scorn to suggest; but wish to say that when Westhampton does flood the editors with material and take her allotted space in THE MESSENGER,two requirements alone will complete the reform; artistic production and interesting material. Mesdemoiselles, if you will but take chemical formulae, medi~val romance, economic conditions, a recipe for cucumber cold cream, or any of the several subjects which have occupied literary minds since Beowulf, and make them artistic and reeking with interest, the next issue of THE MESSENGERwill stagger proudly forth. And the expositions on the art of osculation, and the treatises on the sentiments of a hen after hatching the ninth egg will be promptly used to ignite the editor's wastebasket. M. w. H.
THE ACADEMIC BLURB
Is there any excuse for "senior write-ups"? "Yes," says the Annual Editor, at his wits' end for copy to embellish the several tons of glazed, white paper which stare him blankly in the eye. "Yes," murmur the worshippers of tradition , "have there not always been write-ups? Always?" "Yes," beams the campus go-getter, a tabulation of whose academic proclivities and collegiate honors would dazzle old Homer himself. "No," shout the poor devils to whose unhappy lot will inevitably fall the contriving of these miniature, momentous biographies.
An amazing phenomenon of college life is this business of senior write-ups Interview each individual member of the senior class and you will discover that no less than 85 per cent of these astute persons are irrevocably opposed to the printing of such write-ups. "Stupid," "inane," "idiotic," "apple-sauce," "bunk" - these are but a few of the classic opinions which will greet your eager ears. And yet, when the matter is brought up before a business meeting of the class it is invariably decided, with much enthusiasm, to have writeups in the anual.
Said Theophile Gautier, "A quoi sort-il? Cela sert a etre beau. Des qu'une chose devient utile, souvent elle cesse- d'e tre belle." This theory of beauty for its own sweet sake could doubtlessly be forwarded in extenuation of senior write-ups, only so very few of them are ever beautiful. Or, for that matter, even clever; an attribute which will excuse many deplorable shortages. "But wait ," exclaim the poor hacks, "what would you have? Please to gaze upon our subject matter, kind sir, our subject matter! And then, too, if we wreck our cerebellums in the more or less vain attempt to devise symmetrical phrases of charm and allure, who will read the jolly old thing? One harried editor, one fishy-eyed compositor, one myopic proof-reader, and the 'writee,' or victim, himself. Why, then, such pother? Why cast such jewels to the guests of Circe? Why not dash off the requisite number of vocables ( one hundred, one-fifty, or two hundred, as the gentlemanly editor may elect) during some especially dull lecture in class?" No sooner said than done. Shortly the deed is so consummated.
Thus far .concerning the technique usually employed in the con£ection of senior write-ups. From now on these present comments will be directed towards what is commonly known as "constructive criticism," beginning with a brief inspection of those factors which enter into the construction of a successful write-up. A
successful write-up, Mesdames et Messieurs, is one which contains a measure of originality ( for a senior write-up, be it remembered) ; a dash of cleverness; not too much soft-soap ( synonym, this, for frail, white lies) ; and some slight claim to verbal comeliness. These are the minimum qualitative requirements. The quantitative content will cause you no great concern, the Editor of the Year Book attending to this in a very affable, but quite firm, fashion.
First, as to the matter of originality. Success at this point depends both upon the author of the sketch and his model, with the greater burden, perhaps, upon the latter. Should your senior possess a not too ordinary personality, containing, say, some outstanding feature of character or ability upon which you can lay a finger, then will your path be marvelously eased. On the other hand, should he be the usual, one hundred per cent collegian -colorless, indistinct, all of a piece -you are headed hotly in the direction of disaster, despite your Hugoesque vocabulary, and your E. Phillips Oppenheim imagination. The first essential, then, is to obtain a target that is different; a senior, that is, who stands out from the flock either abnormally, subnormally, or superlatively. Then, with a reasonable employment of verbal adroitness, you are well on the way to the achieving of a fair success. Any literate person, given a decently vivid model, should be able to drag forth some dominant characteristic and therefrom squeeze one hundred and fifty or two hundred words of passable prose.
Cleverness is another matter. Here the author must rely upon his own inate wit, aided and abetted by such prayer and meditation as he may deem necessary and expedient. It is quite true that certain personalities lend themselves more readily to "wise cracks" than do others, and to this extent the victim's mental, physical, and spiritual make-up will be of undoubted assistance. In the main, however, the discovery of some felicitous ,leitmotif capable of supporting one hundred cunningly arranged words, is usually due to a benevolent Providence, plus a good digestion. Or, lacking the latter, an appropriate quantity of castor oil administered with discretion.* We are not trying to be facetious. No sane person will deny the close relationship which exists being physical well-being, particularly an active
*Mr. H. L. Mencken in his essay on "The Divine Afflatus " (Prejudic es, Second Series. Knopf, New York, 1920) elaborates upon this theme with great force and cunning "But I am so far gone," says he, "in materialism that I am disposed to deny flatly and finally, and herewith do deny flatly and finally, that there has lived a poet in the whole history of the world, ancient or modern, near or far, who ever managed to; write 1 great poetry, or even passably fair and decen~ poetry, at a time when he was suffering' from stenosis at any point along the thirty foot via dolorosa running from the pylorus to the sigmoid flexure. In other words, when he was- A tough beefsteak, I daresay, has ditched many a promising sonnet, and bad beer, as every one knows, has spoiled hundreds of sonatas. "
alimentary canal, and any form of mental alertness. However, we would not stress this point too strongly in connection with senior write-ups. As we have said, a great deal depends on sheer luck and a kind Providence, -factors which count heavily, regardless of the vigorous condition of your peristaltic muscles.
As to the matter of applying the goose-grease, however, the author must consult his own conscience. Moderation is advised. A too generous sprinkling of rose water is sure to result fatally. In fact, it is this somewhat regrettable tendency upon the part of collegiate phrase-makers that has brought this form of academic literature into a mild disrepute, causing no less a personage than the incomparable Mr. Rube Goldberg to very justly characterize these little cameolike biographies as "portraits done in oil -banana oil." So then, fellow hacks, if you desire success to grace your efforts, dip but a light finger into the liquid soap.
We now come to a more difficult problem, that of verbal pulchritude. Even here, however, the requirements are not over-exacting, although little can be done to assist the novice along this line. You either write or you don't. You either take a simple notion and set it forth in plain, concise, telling phraseology, or else you major in science.
A few don'ts, however, may not be amiss. Do not insist that, "she has a splendid Christian character," or that "we predict for him a very successful future." This is not "writing per£ ectly of beautiful happenings." Nothing so hoary with age can possibly possess beauty. Not, at any rate, in the way of verbal composition. Also such expressions as: "her bright, sunny smile," "his persona.l magnetism," "is a man's man in every sense of the word" or "Alm,a Mater will have cause to be proud of him," have long since been pensioned by all right minded folk, and no humane person will pluck them forth from out their well deserved oblivion.
And yet, and yet, Gentlemen and Ladies, every Springtime these ancient stylistic Methusalehs creep haltingly across the chaste, shining pages of uncounted collegiate year books.
Uncounted collegiate year books. The solution? There 1s none. At least, none is visible at present upon the academic horizon. Perhaps there is no need for any. At any rate, our present investigation does not probe so deeply. We merely diagnose the affliction, and indicate certain desirable palliatives. Certainly, we have no desire to suppress senior "write-ups." We have no desire whatever to prick down Gibraltar with a darning needle.
