MSGR_1925v52n1

University of Richmond Students Cordially Invited to

ST. PAUL'S

REV. BEVERLEY D. TUCKER, JR., D. 0., RECTOR

SUNDAY SERVICES

9 :45-Bible Classes and Sunday School

11 :00-Morning Pra y er and Sermon

8 :15-Evening Prayer and Sermon

Vested Choir of 40 Voices With the Following Soloists:

Tenor-Joseph Whittemore Soprano-Mrs. Frances W Reinhart Bass-Norman Call Alto-Mrs. F. Flaxington Harker F. Flaxington Harker, Director and Organist

ST·PAUL'S is the historic "Church of the Confederacy," referred to by Mrs. Jefferson Davis as ''The West• minster Abbey of the South." Pews occupied by President Davis and General Robert E. Lee are marked by silver tablets. The memorials to Confederate leaden and others are among the moat beautiful in the entire country.

A liberal Christian message, for thought and forward-looking young men and women 1s preached from its pulpit.

Kellam Hospital, Inc.

RESOLUTIONS

"We, the members of the First Baptist Church of Wartburg, Tenn., desire to express our appreciation for the kindness, liberality and skill of Kellam Hospital, Richmond, Va., shown our beloved Pastor, Rev. I. H. Bee, in the successful cure of that dread disease, cancer, and his restoration to us in perfect health and, we trust, many more years of usefulness.

"And Further, Be it Resolved, That a copy of these resolutions be placed on the records of the church and a copy forwarded to Kellam Hospital.

"Done at regular session of the Church, this 9th day of August, 1925."

CARRIE S. HONEYCUTT, Clerk and Treasurer.

The Southern Baptist Theological Seminary

LOUISVILLE KENTUCKY

S E S SI O N O F T H I RT Y - TWO W E EK S

Entirely new suburban home by January, 1926; progressive and o rt hodox faculty of eminen t Chr ist ian scho lars; comprehensive and p r actical cur r iculum; la r ge an d world-w ide stude nt fe llowship; numerous student-served churches; tuti ti on free; financial assis t a n ce where needed, and m odera t e expe n ses; t he Ha r vard o r J o h ns H op ki ns of t he theol og ica l w o r ld.

Twenty-two University of Richmond students last Session. University of Richmond third among 167 schools. University of Richmond men have high rating.

Write E. Y MULLINS, President

UNIVERSITYOF RICHMOND

INCLUDES

1. Richmond College, a College of Liberal Arts for Men.

2. Westhampton College, a College of Liberal Arts for Women.

3. The T. C. Williams School of Law, a Professional School of Law, offering the Degree of LL. B.

4. The Summer School. W. L. Prince, M. A., Director.

Richmond College for Men

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

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

Westhampton College

MAY LANSFIELD KELLER, PH D ., DEAN

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

The T. C. Williams School of Law

J. H. BARNETT, JR., LL B ., SECRETARY

Three years required for degree of LL. B. in the Morning Division, four years in the Evening Division. Strong faculty of ten professors. Large Library. Moderate Fees. Open to both Men and Women. Students who so desire can work their way.

For catalogue, booklet, or views, or other information concerning entrance into any College, address the Dean or Secretary.

F.

W. BOATWRIGHT - President

LULLABY (Poem)

BENEATH THE ETERNAL CITY (Sketch)

LovE LAKE (Poem)

PROPRIETYPAYS (Short Story)

AnIOs (Poem)

LA PouPEE (Poem)

SUNSET (Sketch)

THE LITTLE DAUPHIN (Translation)

A STAR (Poem)

IMPRESSIONS OF A CYNIC COLLEGEPORTRAITS-II .. Two PoEMS .....

QUARRELINGAS A FINE ART (Essay)

COMPENSATION (Poem) . . .

CuPrn WINs--AGAIN ! (Short Story)

RosEMARY-that' s for Remembrance

TIME DRIVETH ON MY LADY (Poem) WIND (Short Story) WITH

(Sketch)

BooK REvrnws CAUSERIE

CONTRIBUTORS TO THIS ISSUE

MARIAN MARSH, of Richmond, a Westhampton Senior, is VicePresident of the University Players and a member of the Writers' Club.

"M. L. M." is a Senior at Westhampton College.

W. A. SHELL is a Junior in Richmond College.

BETTY WINSTON is a Sophomore in Westhampton College. Her home is in Richmond, Va.

J. DONALD DEVILBISS, a Senior in Richmond College, makes his first appearance in "The Messenger" with this issue.

EMERALD BRISTOW, a Sophomore in Westhampton College, contributes a charcoal sketch.

W. C. BENTLEY, a Junior in Richmond College, and tackle on the varsity team, makes his first appearance in "The Messenger."

W. E. SLAUGHTER, a Junior in Richmond College, is Assistant Editor of "The Messenger."

MARGOT MEUNIER is a nom de plume.

GARLAND RICHARDSON, '24, and a graduate student last year, has been a frequent contributor to "The Messenger."

JEAN MacCARTY, newly elected Assistant Editor of Westhampton, is a member of the Junior Class.

ELIZABETH JONES is a Sophomore at Westhampton College, and this is her first appearance in this magazine . .

VoL. LI

THE MESSENGER

NOVEMBER,

1925

No. 1

LULLABY

By MARIAN R. MARSH

Firmly I hold thee claspedTenderly, too,

Now thy wee hand has grasped My gown of blue.

Warmly thy body rests Close to my own, Hungry, thy lips are pressed, Buds not yet blown.

Wondering, I press thy hand So tiny, fair, Gently caress thy hand, Touch now thy hair.

Drowsy, thou noddest there Babe, I can see, Of all life unaware, 0 heart of me!

Sleep then, small stranger, sleep Nestling and warm, While reverent watch I keep, Nothing shall harm.

Softly my kisses fall On thy wee brow, Dear little one, so smallSlumbering now!

BENEATH THE ETERNAL CITY

M.L. M.

Footsteps echoing sharply on the colored tiles of the little chapel rent the velvet curtain of cloistered stillness, that seemed to have hung there through many centuries of devout penitents at mass. Slant gold and sapphire beams of light shining through the lofty window on the right were like "lanes into Heaven that led from a dream." Our guide was droning some unintelligible information. I only remember that his face was like a round frost-bitten apple with a fuzzy caterpillar on the chin. He turned abruptly to the le£t, pushed aside an innocuous-looking screen. Behind beamed a fear some black opening out of which emanated a musty, damp odor. I drew back, wideeyed with dread, but my father explained to me as simply as possible that we were entering the catacombs of the early Christians. Clinging tightly to his hand I allowed myself to be half led and half dragged into that grim doorway.

Down, down interminable steps of stone that led us into a Stygian blackness, which oppressed me with a strange sense of infinite littleness and infinite remoteness. Down ! Down! Down ! Finally we reached level ground. I could discern only dimly the berthlike excavations into which my parents gazed with such interest, lifting their candles to investigate more thoroughly. Yawning, hungry beast-like passageways seemed to crouch on either side, waiting to swallow me in their gloom. I felt as if a myriad of evil eyes were peering at me from the murky blackness. Somewhere in the distance I heard the dreary, lonely drip of water. The darkness seemed to clutch at me with long, clammy fingers. I shuddered at the gaunt procession of shadows that slunk along the walls. Perhaps some of the terror of those early Christians still lurked in the passages and made my heart faint with fear. The darkness cringed and shied away for a moment in the presence of our lights, but as we passed, it closed in behind us with unconquerable thickness.

I do not know how many hours we spent trudging through those gloomy relics of Roman persecution. I was too thoroughly terrified to feel any physical weariness. I only know that when at last I stood in the blessed glow of the stained glass window, the sweet fragments of afternoon sunshine were like the benediction of a venerable priest.

LOVE LAKE

w. A. SHELL, JR.

The sinking sun, as if resolved to hold Its solar rule from early rising moon, Had paused a moment o ' er the small lagoon And on its surface spun a path of gold. It seemed the lake attempted to unfold The story of our lives; seemed to commune With Artemis about the honeymoon That they upon her mirror could behold.

Two human lives, two hearts aflame with love, Divided by the golden shaft of light Were pictured there ; alone, yet undismayed At shadows from the trees and knolls above, For now the waters met in joyous flight, A mingling of our souls in bright cascade.

PROPRIETY PAYS

''Good afternoon, Mr. Ware."

"Why, Miss May Bell, I am so glad to see you."

"Mr. Ware, I have a very serious problem I want to consult you about. You are the only adviser I have since sister Marian "

"Yes, indeed, I am so glad to be able to help you."

The little lady composed herself, and began again bravely.

"This problem concerns Mr. Turner. I have thought it out the best way I could, but I wondered what you, as our minister, would think of it. Mr. Turner has been our -ah-lodger since his sister died four years ago. But now, without Marian, I was wondering if it would be quite proper for him to remain."

"Well, well, this is a serious matter."

"But, Mr. Ware, it doesn't seem improper to me, but you know I must think of our neighbors. Since I live on Church Street and belong to the Missionary Society I have to consider what the ladies will think."

"Have you consulted any of your neighbors?"

"Oh, no, you see I am in such deep mourning that I could not speak of such a thing to anyone but you." She arranged her black skirt and folded her hands on her lap.

"Well, now, how long did you say Mr. Turner had been with you?"

"Four years. He is just like a brother to me and no trouble at all."

"That makes it more difficult."

Mr. Ware sat thinking deeply. Miss May Bell rearranged her skirts and flicked an imaginary piece of dust from her mits.

"Miss May Bell," he said, after about five minutes, "I really think it would be better for Mr. Turner to go elsewhere. You are quite right about considering the feel ings of your neighbors."

"Yes, Mr. Ware, you never can realize what your advice means to me."

Mr. Ware called Martha to escort Miss May Bell home. They were very silent, and Martha realized that Miss May Bell was very much worried. Indeed, she was so worried that she did not even notice when Martha shifted the sunshade and let the sun shine on her.

At supper that night Miss May Bell tried to be cheerful and not remember that it would probably be the last supper Tommy would have in her house. Tommy was very interesting and told her of his day's work but as soon as supper was over Miss May Bell went to her room. She felt she must think. How could she ever get up courage enough to tell Tommy? What would she do when he left? There would be no one to make nice things for. And where would Tommy go? Probably to Miss Abott's. Who would darn his socks? Martha had taken such good care of his clothes, and even she herself had once darned his socks, but no one had ever known it. Just then she heard Tommy come quietly up the steps and heard his door close.

"Oh, Mr. Turner, could you stop a minute? I would like to speak to you."

"Why certainly, Miss May Bell, I am early this morning."

"Mr. Turner, where would you go if I should sell my house?"

"You aren't thinking of selling it , are you?"

"No, oh no, but if it should burn down or something?"

"I really don't know. I have never thought of it, but why do you ask?"

"Well, you see, since dear sister Marion--"

"Why, of course, you are lonely. I am so glad I can be company for you."

"But, Mr. Turner, I didn't mean that."

"Just what do you mean?"

"You see I went to see Mr. Ware yesterday," she paused uncertainly.

"Yes, yes, he is a very nice man, but I really don't understand."

"And you know I live on Church Street, and belong to the Missionary Society so I must consider the ladies ' opinions."

"Of course, but what is it all about?"

"Why since -since I am all alone, I didn't think it would be quite -ah -proper for you to remain."

"Oh, Miss May Bell, that never occurred to me; I will leave as soon as I can get my things together."

"I am so sorry about this, but--"

"I assure you it is all right. I shall go tomorrow."

He hastily left the room, and Miss May Bell sat looking at the floor as if she were too weak to move. She did not look up when

THE MESSENGER

Martha came m, so Martha coughed to let her know she wasn't alone.

"Oh, Martha," said Miss May Bell, turning around, "Mr. Turner is going away tomorrow."

"Will he be gone for a week?"

"A week? He is going away forever."

"Miss May Bell, I can never sleep -with him gone. You know Mary Jane said she heard knockings in the Jones' parlor the other night."

"Why, Martha, what nonsense!"

"Then, Miss May Bell, I won't never have his clothes to fix." A tear trickled down her cheek.

"Martha," said Miss May Bell sharply, "behave yourself. Go and peel the potatoes for dinner."

The next morning the rain was falling in torrents. Miss May Bell's spirits sagged. "Why couldn't it have been lovely and bright," she asked herself, "it would not be so dreary if the sun were only shining." She dressed slowly, and felt several years older as she went down to breakfast.

While they were eating, someone knocked sharply at the door. Miss May Bell jumped, while Tommy looked rather grim.

"It's only the man for my trunk," he said; "I will have to go and see him."

After the trunk had gone, Tommy and Miss May Bell were trying to finish the meal, when the hack came for Tommy. He hastily got up, and, after shaking hands with Miss May Bell, was gone.

"Martha, Mrs. Jones wants to know if you can lend her a cup of rice. She's got chicken soup on the fire and her rice is all gone."

"Come on in, Mary Jane; I can spare her some. I just got some from the store this morning."

Mary Jane accepted the invitation and settled herself comfortably in the black kitchen chair.

"Yes, Martha, I seen you and James at church Sunday. You're goin' with him right steady now, ain't you?"

"Oh, Mary Jane, I don't see where you can talk; I seen you with John."

"Now you jest stop. Is Miss May Bell here?"

"No, she's gone to see Mrs. Lyons 'bout some more mourning clothes."

"What's this I hear 'bout her and that Mr. Turner, what used to live here? I hear Mrs. Jones talking the other day. She say she didn't think Miss May Bell had enough gumption to send him away, but that if she hadn't of done it, she would not have spoken to her."

"You can tell Mrs. Jones that Miss May Bell is a lady and knows wha~ to do."

"How's you making long without a man in the house? Ain't you scared to stay here at night."

"Why, Mary Jane, you know I'm not scared, but Miss May Bell looks scared sometimes. She always seems as if she is looking for somebody."

"Does this Mr. Turner come to see her?"

"He's been here once or twice, but Miss May Bell don't say much; she just looks funny."

"Oh, I hear a door open; she's coming. Thank you for the rice. I'll return it tomorrow noon."

No sooner had she shut the door than Miss May Bell came in. Her cap was slightly awry and a little curl was hanging over her neat white collar.

"Martha, have you any of those spice cakes? Miss Abott's coming up the walk and she must have some tea."

"Yes; I have some nice fresh ones."

Miss May Bell settled her cap and went to welcome her guest.

"Good afternoon, Miss Abott. I've been very lonely lately with nobody but Martha here."

"Yes, yes, dear, I understand. Such a pity for you to have to be all alone. You're young ( and pretty, too," she added to herself, "but I wouldn't tell her").

"Oh, I am not young any longer. But how are your guests, Miss Abott ?"

"Well enough, I suppose. Miss Mary has rheumatism right sharp now, and is always complaining. Miss Anne's sciatica is better now. But I tell you, May Bell, that Mr. Turner that used to live with you worries me some. He looks sorta peaked; he doesn't say anything, but I know that look. Then he doesn't eat much. I had that good bread pudding yesterday for supper, and he didn't so much as taste it. It is real disappointing when you work so hard, too. But you never can count on those men."

THE MESSENGER

Miss Abott had been so interested in her tea that she had not seen Miss May Bell's worried look when she had spoken of Mr. Turner.

"I was sorry you couldn't be at the last missionary meeting. We decided to send a box to the Japanese." The clock in the corner struck six. "Why, my dear, I didn't know it was so late -here it is six o'clock. I must be going."

"Good-bye, Miss Abott, do come again."

As soon as Martha had shown Miss Abott to the door Miss May Bell called her.

"Martha, come here, please."

"Yes, Miss May Bell."

"I am really quite worried. Miss Abott just told me that Mr. Turner does not eat much; do you suppose he could be sick?"

"Now, Miss May Bell, you know how well he has always been. But he used to eat so much here, he really might be sick."

"Martha, I think I will have him for supper tomorrow. I'll have muffins and jam; he always did like them. I shall write him a note immediately."

The next evening everything was spick and span. Miss May Bell was waiting eagerly for the knock on the front door. At last it came, and she heard Martha ask him into the parlor. After a few minutes she went downstairs.

"How do you do, Mr. Turner. I am so glad to see you."

"Miss May Bell, you cannot realize what a pleasure it is to me; it seems like old times."

When the greetings were over neither of them knew what to say. But at that moment Martha opportunely rang the supper bell. Mr. Turner escorted Miss May Bell into the dining-room in quite the way he used to. Martha beamed at them all during the meal. No one could possibly think that Mr. Turner had lost his appetite if they could have seen him eating muffins and jam.

After supper Miss May Bell and Tommy went into the parlor. The evening was cool so Martha had built an open fire there.

"You never could guess how much I have missed you and this dear house, Miss May Bell."

"Oh, we've missed you, too," she blushed slightly and looked down. "But how do you like Miss Abott's ?"

"She is very nice; tries to make me comfortable, but--"

"I know, of course. How is your business now?"

"Well enough; we made a big sale yesterday. The Johnson's house."

"Yes, that's nice."

"But now, I would like to know what you've been doing?"

"Oh, nothing but knitting. And-and here is something I thought you might like."

He took the proffered gift-a pair of grey wool socks.

"Why, May -Oh, Miss May Bell, how nice of you to think of me. But I do believe you should think of me. I have done nothing but think of you since I left. I haven't been able to eat; nothing tastes like what you used to have. Don't you think I could come back? I am so lonesome."

"But, Tommy, think what the ladies would say; I couldn't let you."

"Well, I can't stand this any longer; I didn't realize bow much you meant to me till I le£t. Won't -won't you come, and knit socks for me all my life?"

"And, Tommy will you always eat then? Miss Abott told me yesterday that you hadn't eaten for days. "

"Of course, I will, dear," said Tommy, wiping her eyes; "you saw what I ate tonight."

ADIOS

GEORGE REYNOLDS FREEDLEY

Silver-sharp were her words poured from the variegated u rn of her mind; sword-hard were her words, though she veiled them with the softest of tones. Yet so silver-grey her voice, that the bitterness of her words were tinged with the aura of the quiet dusk of her love.

LA POUPEE

WARREN A. M cN EILL

A child

Sobbing her heart out Over a doll.

Only a rag doll ; Old and tattered, Made dear By a thousand associationsTorn to bits, by a dog. "She will soon forget," Grown-ups Smile

A savage Sobbing and moaning Crying out in a Barbaric tongue For his lost Idol.

Only an image; A gilded, hideous figure, Dreadful to behold; a huge Doll, carried away by Unbelievers. "We will teach him The true faith," the conquerors Smile.

A mother

Sobbing at the grave Of her child. Made in the image of God; a human being, Weak and mortal; Godlike Once, but now a mere Doll. And from above, Heaven Smiles.

Mankind

Looking in awe to A divine Being, yet With eyes closed in Fear. Always Dreading, lest there should appear An ubiquitous SmileRevealing the world as

A child

Sobbing her heart out Over a doll.

SUNSET

W. C. BENTLEY, JR.

FIRESIDE:

"The curfew tolls the knell of parting day The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea . "

Peace . . . contentment . . . security. The languid tabby drops weighted lids over fast closing eyes, feebly flickering an ear at the proffered cup of milk. A last failing beam of the dying sun lingers caressingly over the taut waistcoat of the relaxed figure in the arm chair. From above, gentle voices murmur . "my soul to keep . if I should die I pray, thee, Lord "

RIVERSIDE:

Piercing winds vengefully stir the receding tide. A cold, grey mist thickens the ghostly air. Silence - but for the remorseless, swirling wind, seeking out the very marrow, chilling the heart of the lone figure that, half-dazedly, braves its fury. . . . . No greatcoat deflects the icy blast which almost bodily picks up, disdainfully casts down, the abject form. Wearily it rights itself. Gropes falteringly to the pier's end. Pauses. Momentarily pauses. Straightening, as if with a last resolve. Tottering, as the fitful wind gleefully wakes to spin it around . . . spin it round. . . With a last, long shudder it disappears, arms outstretched, into the quiet oblivion of the Seine.

THE LITTLE DAUPHIN

LESLIE L. JONES

(A translation of Alphonse Daudet's "Le Mort du Dauphin")

The little Dauphin is very ill; the little Dauphin is dying. . In every church throughout the kingdom, the Holy Sacrament lies exposed night and day, and tall wax tapers are being burned for his recovery. Gloomy and silent are the streets of the old town; no bells ring ; carriages pass at a walk. . Curious townsmen stand about the palace gates and peep through the iron railings at the Swiss guardsmen who loiter in the courtyard, chatting with an air of importance.

The whole chateau is in a ferment. . Chamberlains and majardomos dash up and down the marble steps. . . . Through the corridors glide silk-clad courtiers and slender pages, moving from group to group, whispering, seeking news. . . . Ladies of honor exchange courtesies upon the broad stairways, and press pretty embroidered kerchiefs to reddened eyes.

In the conservatory is a numerous gathering of robed physicians. One can see them through the leaded panes, their long black sleeves aflutter, their periwigs nodding professionally. . . . The tutor and the riding master of the little Dauphin are marching up and down before the door, waiting the doctors' decision. Pantry boys pass them close by and do not bow. Monsieur the Riding Master is swearing like a trooper; Monsieur the Tutor recites verses from Horace. . And all the while, from over near the stables, comes a plaintive neighing. It is the little Duphin's pony, forgotten by the grooms, whimpering over an empty manger.

And the King?

Where is my lord the King ? The King has locked himself all alone in a distant room of the castle. Majesty should not be seen weeping. . But the Queen -that is another matter. Sitting at the bedside of her little Dauphin, her pretty face bathed in tears, she sobs aloud before them all, like the wife of a simple cobbler might do.

Upon. his own, dainty, lace covered couch, whiter than the sheets which enfold him, the little Dauphin is lying with closed eyes. Apparently he sleeps. But no, the little Dauphin is not sleeping. Turning towards his mother, and seeing her tears, he speaks to her:

"Why do you weep, my royal mother? Is it because you think I am dying?"

The Queen attempts an answer. Tears will not let her.

"Do not weep , Your Majesty; you forget that I am the Dauphin, and that Dauphins do not die like this."

The tears of the Queen increase. The little Dauphin becomes frightened.

"Rola! " he says, "I will not have Death come in here after me. I know how to stop him. Let forty stout guardsmen be sent us to mount guard about our bed ! Let one hundred large cannon, with lighted matches, watch night and day beneath our windows! And woe to Death should he dare approach!"

To please her royal son, the Queen nods her head. Within an hour can be heard the . rumbling of heavy cann on rolling into the courtyard ; and forty tall habardiers ( partisans in huge fists) file into the room and range themselves about the walls. Veterans are these men; stalwart old troopers with grey mustachios. When the little Dauphin sees them he claps his hands. One of them he recogmzes:

"Lorain !. Lorain !"

The old soldier advances a step toward the royal bed.

"I like you fine, my good Lorain. Show me that great big sabre of yours. If Death tries to get me we must kill him, eh?"

"Yes, my lord," replies Lorain. And down his tanned cheeks glide two large tears.

At this moment the Chaplain approaches, and in a low voice talks for a long time to the little Dauphin, holding a crucifix before his eyes. The little Dauphin listens to him with an air of astonishment, then suddenly interrupts :

"I understand very well what you are telling me, Monsieur l' Abbe, but after all, cannot my little friend Beppo die m my place if we give him lots of money?"

The Chaplain continues to talk in his low voice and the little Dauphin becomes more and more astonished.

When the Chaplain is through talking the little Dauphin commences with a deep sigh:

"All of this is very sad, Monsieur l'Abbe, but one thing consoles me, and that is that up there where the angel s live I shall be the

Dauphin. The Good Father is my own cousin and I know he will treat me according to my rank."

Then turning to his mother, he adds : "Let them bring me my best clothes; my tunic of white ermine, and my velvet slippers. I must make myself worthy of the angels' court, and I must enter paradise like a Dauphin."

A third time the Chaplain leans over the little Dauphin and in his soft voice talks to the lad for a long time. In the midst of his discourse the little Dauphin interrupts him, angrily interrupts him:

"Why then," he cries, "to be Dauphin means nothing!"

And turning his face to the wall the little Dauphin refuses to listen any longer. The little Dauphin is sobbing bitterly.

A STAR KATE RUCKER

A little star high in the sky, Does it mean ought to me?

A friendly light when grief is nighA sharer in my glee.

A gem that sparkles far above More dear than precious stone, Not cold and hard, but full of love For me when I'm alone.

IMPRESSIONS OF A CYNIC

J. DONALD DEVILBISS

I

LIFE

The heavy trudge of a mill-worker at dawn, The mad rush of a Rolls-Royce from the Country Club. A forgotten trench in the Potter's Field A mausoleum banked high with withered flowers.

II

LOVE

Smiles, kisses, happiness a momentLying eyes, lying lips, lying letters; Jazz-madness , triangles, poison, shotguns; Golf widows, college widows, grass widows, happy widows.

III

AMBITION

The gaping lips of mighty Ca es ar's wounds, Rats gnawing at a dead heart on St. Helena, A man sawing wood and nursing a withered arm at Doorn, "The longest funeral procession in years."

IV

GOVERNMENT

Troops and legions of laws -too fragile for human use; Blatant politicians who once milked cows at four A. M.; Be-tinsled military attaches whom the smell of powder nauseates; Reds, socialists, anarchists; bombs, propaganda, fear!

V GLORY

A million perfect men passing m review along the Unter den Linden, Half a million broken, muddy animals hurled back across the Rhine; The Czar of all the Russias fighting off wolves in Siberia. Six feet of gold braid today-six feet of red earth tomorrow.

VI

MOONLIGHT

A soft southern breeze wafted across the lagoon; Languorous sighs -the more languorous thru long practice; Long, hot kisses, the quintessence of scientific achievement. Who ever started this thing about the sentimental effects of moonlight?

Her fair straight hair frames a rounded face from which serious blue eyes regard the world in a poet's manner. An air of mysterious preoccupation is about her, and a charming carelessness of ordinary things. She is altogether an ideal of the young poet. Nature communes to her its various moods which she is able to portray in pleasing unforced sentiment; words convey rythmical possibilities which she uses with skillful charm, while beauty of thought envelopes the whole of her work. She has a serious interest in her poetry, and does not regard it as a remarkable accident as do most of the campus writers, with an air of puzzled bewilderment at her efforts, but with a frank earnestness, she writes to be read and to succeed. Thelma is in a way successful. She has accomplished what seems to the average college writer a rather breathtaking thing. She has had her verse published, not once, but several times in periodicals of poetry which are quite well known as publications specializing in verse. The Step Ladder, Interludes, and The Mesa published several of her earlier poems. Recently Verse and The Lyric West have contained her work. Distinctly feminine as her poetry is, it is rich in universal interest of beauty, color and rhythm.

THELMA PHLEGAR

COLLEGE PORTRAITS No. II

REMONSTRANCE

THELMA PHLEGAR

She is a reaper where she has not sowed. I know this well. One day I saw her bend To catch a child in some forgotten road With sure, possessive fingers. She is friend

To fisher-boys, and makes about the dawn The foolish legend of a crimson shield Held safe above the little river's spawn. They count as flowers the blackberries in her field.

She never had a child. Yet every boy From Barry Bridge even to this town is hers ... And I would be a proselyte to joy, I, too -if only once I saw her tears.

SPECIFICATION

THELMA PHLEGAR

I'll never wed a woman Who would be lovelier

Than the blueberry bloom and the heather flower That the earth lifts up to her. ,

She must be swift in meeting A wind that sings from the sea, And her words shall be like a dryad's words In telling of it to me.

Though the bread should burn in the oven And the needle rust in the gown, I'll wed no woman who would not cup Her hands when the rain comes down.

-VERSE.

QUARRELING AS A FINE ART

J. MARK LUTZ

Too little attention has been paid to quarreling as one of the fine arts. However, with the decline of more active brawls a notable increase in the good old-fashioned, home variety spat is noticed.

Perhaps this increase is due to the realization that it takes more mental power to weild an epigram than a bludgeon. Or it may be due to the delight in all competitive sports, of which heated argument is one of the best.

Whatever the reasons for the growth of quarreling, it is admitted that it is one form of exercise in which all can engage, regardless of age, race, or creed, not to mention past condition of servitude. And as the national pastime of a democracy, it cannot be beaten. The only equipment needed for a quarrel of any length is a nimble tongue and a mind gravid with insulting epithets.

Thus a squabble, possessing all the fascinating pleasures of a gig-saw puzzle in the placing of these unkind remarks, may be prolonged indefinitely, or may be terminated by the clever "So's your old man" so much in favor among the elite.

The occasion for warfare is ever present. It may start when a fat man steps on your foot or when the butcher sends up the wrong cut of meat. To begin, the approved remarks are: "Sa-ay, what do you think this is?" or "While not given to criticism, yet " according to your sex.

Of course, those who have little or no imagination cannot see how delightful coddling the emotion of anger can be. Sorrow has long been a favorite and can be used to as much advantage as joy. The very fact that anger is a purely cerebral activity enhances its value for those who are inactive and short of running powers.

This use of brain is necessary also in picking an adversary. It is never well or in the best taste to select someone larger than yourself with whom to argue, for the game may irk your opponent and he may resort to more primitive methods for settling the differences. Heavy practice can be done on members of your family, for there

QUARRELING AS A FINE ART

is no advantage in starting a lively feud if you are not likely to see the other contender often.

After all, there are too many insipid pleasures and not enough schisms in the course of every day life. It is only through the uncertain that the certain can be expected, and there is no pleasure like that of a variance. So as good Americans who have developed everything possible to its highest form, let us stand squarely for quarreling as a fine art with the slogan of "Bigger and Better Discords."

COMPENSATION

LOUISE GAYLE

Tonight the gray sky bends to weep Above an earth forlorn and cold. Long folds of mist, her streaming hair, A damp and sodden world enfold. But from her anguish, dark and deep, From tears that flow from sorrow's mold, Will come the dawning, chaste and fair, The birth of sun in flaming gold.

CUPID WINS--Again

w. E. SLAUGHTER

It was after one o'clock at night, and as Fourteenth Street, which splits the heart of San Francisco's negro district, is very narrow, and dark and treacherous at night time, it may have been that no one was a witness of this particular incident. B9t if one had chanced to pass the only house on the row with marble steps at this time, and had been curious as well as observant, he would have declared that after exactly eight minutes by the clock, the object dimly silhouetted against the drawn curtain had divided, two pairs of arms had untwined themselves and (if he had had good ears) that there had been a resounding "smack!" And if this Someone had not been in a hurry and had waited a little longer he would have heard something else. The front door of the house opened.

"Does it have to come off?" whispered a man's voice, in which was apparent a tone of sadness -nay, grief !

"Yes, love," piped a delicate female voice. "Won't you please, please understand, and forgive? No one else shall have my heart."

"Then this -this is the last time?" came, very low and chokingly. Probably a real good medium could have detected a great turmoil in the psychic world at this time. At any rate, we, who have had similar experiences as the above have felt something like a mental eruption. But presently a dark form emerged from the vestibule and staggered carelessly down the street. It was soon swallowed up into the night. From the room above the steps issued the sounds of weeping and wailing, unstifled.

On the upper marble step sat a little black cupid, very pensive. For eight discouraging weeks Jefferson Lafyet Washington had wooed the mulatto object of his desires before he had succeeded in overcoming all competition and in drawing her unwilling promise to join him in wedlock. This had been secured only after convincing her sickly father that it would be better for his health and happiness to side with him. This had not been a difficult task. All Jeff had had to do was to threaten to stop the daily delivery of an ambercolored bottle that the old man had been wont to find conveniently in his garbage box every morning -at greatly reduced rates; and the hint that old Mister Alexandro Jackson might be pressed for payment of the large amount still due Mister Washington, was a big factor that had helped to win the old man's blessing. So it had been arranged that on Saturday night at half past eight Miss Lucinda

Jackson was to become the dusky bride of Jefferson Lafyet Washington, Esq.

Sampson Browne was the only one of the many suitors and flatterers of Lucinda who could really claim her heart. Before the courting of this handsome negro Romeo, Lucinda had fallen. The scene above was enacted on the evening that was to be the final act of their blissful romance, and after Lucinda had tearfully informed him of her martyrlike decision. Had it not been for her beloved father's insistence that Jefferson Washington be recognized, she would have given the possessor of her heart her body also. For Loving Sam had his charms. He was the stalwart young traffic cop who successfully controlled order at the bustling corner of Thirteenth and Union Streets. He had a thorn in his side and this was Jefferson Washington, and it pained him greatly. Oh, how he hated it. Oh!

Time is ruthless in its flight, and Saturday morning quickly rolled around. Jeff Washington sang happily and held his head high as he lazily worked his way down the dirty little alley running behind the home of his lady fair. This and neighboring alleys made up his "district." He was a garbage man; but he was also a wealthy man. Folks had often wondered at this. And had whispered. This morning as he emptied the foul boxes into his stagnant cart his mind was not on his labors, and much of the rubbish missed the side to fall back into the dirty lane. One thing might have been noticed, though, -that he sat down gently and with great care upon the ugly black blanket over his high seat. But he was happy this morning and sang sentimental ballads. Tonight was the night!

At noon our villain was half through his work. Once more our friends with ethereal perception must be called upon to inform us whether it was the little black cupid that took the nut from the axle of the large right wheel as the heavy cart bumped slowly down the rough alley. It is quite certain, however, that it was Jeff's joyful whistling that drowned the sound as it fell to the ground. At any rate, as he turned into Union Street a wicked smile covered his bloated face. At the corner he saw despondent Sam bravely trying to forget his loss by raining scorching coals of indignant ire from his burning soul upon the head of an unfortunate driver who had disobeyed signals. Jeff laughed, and a villainish laugh, laughed he. He would give him the merry ha-ha! as he passed him.

The warm California sun had brought o~t many autoists, and all seemed in a hurry to get somewhere. Strange why all of us who

drive are always in a hurry to get "th ere." Where? Well, the preacher said they were all rushing to the garage or the devil. The cart took its humble place behind several automobiles and awaited the "GO" signal. As he turned the semaphore, lowly Sam, out of the corners of his eyes, saw the malicious grin of the approaching cart driver, and dreaded the sarcastic remarks he knew would be made. The cart reached the semaphore. With a haughty laugh, Jeff doffed his grimy cap and called to the officer, "Comin' around to the weddin' tonight, nigger?" Just then the wheel came off.

To see a man buried beneath four hours' collection of nice oozy garbage stuff isn't a common spectacle , and as the gooey juices spread over the street, finding lodgment in street car tracks and nearby sewers, Sam rushed over. All traffic halted. As the unfortunate Jefferson was dragged from his vegetati ve covering, the nauseous odor was subdued as a new savor permeated the atmosphere.

A church wedding was a rare occasion in Fourteenth Street society. So at eight-fifteen the Africa-Baptist Church was crowded, and a strange scent vied with the fragrance of the many flowers. Old Man Jackson, with something on his hip and nothing on his mind, was in his pastor's study reading final instructions on how to give away his daughter. The Etiquette Book was Miss Eichler's latest. It was a hard part to act, for the old rascal was scandalously tight-fisted. The bride was downstairs nervously crying , while her dusky maids foolishly tried to console her and the men looked sheepishly on. Yes, sheep ishly is a good word, as those men kn ow who have been in the presence of a weeping woman and know not what to do. There was not one there but who would have given his right arm to kiss those tears away. Lucinda would not be comforted. She was going to marry wealthy Jefferson Lafyet Washington in contradiction to her heart's feelings. In the auditorium, the congregation, impatient with excitement, had become restless. The groom would come out of the ante-room in the front when the bride entered from the rear to march down the aisle to him

Promptly at half past eight the organ burst forth in that old and much worn refrain, and Lucinda, without her soul, sorrowfully climbed the stairs. Each step beneath her weight creaked out to her their scornful accusation. Over her head fluttered the little black cupid - and he was smiling! But no one saw him. They reached the entrance, and with handkerchief over her flooded eyes, the bride followed the procession. Her decrepit father hobbled feebly at her

side while visions of toddies danced through his head. A buzz of excitement accompanied her to the altar, but as the procession halted expectant silence bore heavily upon all. The door of the ante-room screeched upon its ancient hinges and out walked Jeff Washington, two other colored gentlemen and -an Irishman.

"Ah! there's the groom," as Jeff slowly, hesitatingly advanced. But other thoughts came into the heads of the black populace. "Who is that white man at his side with the badge on his coat? And who is that behind them in a neat tuxedo?-why, that's Lucinda's old beau, Sampson Browne! And his brother's with him. The quartet reached the altar. Three turned to face the congregation, the other in a slinking attitude kept his eyes on his feet. Sam spoke up:

"Ladies and gen'men, deacons of dis yer church and Mistah Jackson. Know you all <lat Ah loves Lucinda Jackson wif all de love Ah can put out, and Lucinda Jackson reciprocakes dis affection. Dis heah night Ah got some mighty good reasons foah being heah at dis affaiah, and Ah don't mean maybe. Ah come to claim de right to free dis gal from a scandaloneous marriage." He paused. "Officer, tell 'em."

In vivid words the prohibition officer told of the affair at the corner, the discovery of the broken amber bottles, of the disclosure of Jefferson Washington's law violations, and of his disgraceful arrest with a long jail sentence. Sam looked out upon the sea of gaping mouths.

"Now, folks, Miss Jackson many dahk nights in de quietitude of her pahlor has vowed and declahed <lat she loves me and only me, so wif dis confession, if you all will sit still and Lucy is still willin' we's gonna go through wif dis yer ceremonial. Lucy, honey, is yo wif me?"

Lucy was. With a hysterical sob she threw herself into the waiting arms of Loving Sam, and as he pressed her to his exultant bosom the parson tied the knot.

After the excitement was over and the last person had left the auditorium, that naked little sprite sat perched upon the open pulpit Bible . As his gleaming little eyes glanced down to the open page they fell upon these words :

"There is no fear in love; but perfect love casteth out fear. He that f eareth is not perfect in love."

A faint smile played about his chubby cheeks, and, like the thoughtful doctor that he is, he mused, "What would my meek patients do without me?" His little chest swelled and he grinned.

ROSEMARY

"-that's for remembrance"

This page is dedicated to the Older Generation. Each month it will present some piece of writing taken from old Messenger files; artic.les, that is, which first appeared in these pages twenty, thirty, forty, or even fifty years ago. The poem reprinted below is from the May 1884 issue. The Editors have been unable to discover just who "Clinton" was, it only being known that, during the years '83 and '84 he contributed much verse to The Messenger.

TO PYRRHA

(A Translation from Horace)

I

What youth, with many a floweret crowned With liquid odors perfumed sweet, With love-suits presses thee around,0 Pyrrha, in thy soft retreat? For whom dost loose thy yellow hair?

II

Plain in thy neatness! If he waits,How oft, at faith soon broken, will He weep, and sigh at fitful fates 1 And, all unused, with wonder'!! fill At seas grown rough 'neath storm-dark air,-

III

He who so now enjoys thee fast, With sweet thought of thy constancy! Why, ignorant of the trustless blast, Hopes thou from foreign loves art free, Believing thou art all he era ves.

IV

Ah, wo's for those to whom untried Thou show'st thy charms! The temple, set With votive tablets on its side, Proves I have offered vestments wet Unto great Neptune of the waves.

"CLINTON."

BEGONIA

ELIZABETH JONES

I was in town walking up the boulevard when it started to rain. At the top of the hill was the capitol, a piece of statuary on an ash heap. One wondered why white curtains were hung in hotel windows high above, why geraniums were placed on the sills. It gave an air of worn out rigidity to the boulevard. If one could have seen the alleys behind the cold stone buildings one would have known something of the things in them, but from the front one could only guess. The lone begonia in a window overhead must have been a sole survivor of one noble front-porch collection of ruddy-green begonia and cactus. Now it stood alone, glad of the rain, the last link between it and its former companions. The rain swept stark streets clear of traffic and pedestrians. It washed the proud, ugly red brick and the gray stone. My shoes were soggy, my new hat ruined. Midway in the block was a theater, a gaudy niche in a stern front. I went in the lobby for shelter. Everything outside, even the brick, was a beautiful silvery gray. The raindrops made an exhilarating noise on the pavement.

I bought a ticket from the woman in the glass cage. Without looking up she said, "It's a fine day, isn't it?"

"Yes," I answered, looking at her hair and thinking more of her than of my own opinion of the weather. Her hair was of a warm color, crisp but lifeless, her complexion ruddy, too. And she wore a rough green flannel. "Very bad," I thought, "with her complexion. She's probably fresh from the country. No, she must have be<m here quite a while to have acquired such a dress." And as I took my seat in the dim theater I thought of Nashville's population of good people from the country. They were swallowed up in a big country town. Everybody there was like that. Most of the people that stayed at the Maxwell House had come down the river on the Henry Harley to sell hogs or attend the legislature. These were the people of Tennessee - politicians, farmers, river men, legislators, politicians. I once heard my grandfather say, "If ever you want to see anybody, go to the Maxwell House." He stayed there when he came to court. My uncle's campaign headquarters were there. Everybody in Tennessee who was in the least interest~d in putting the right man in office either had headquarters in the Maxwell House or knew someone who had. And everyone there had a begonia collection back in Antioch, Murfeesboro, Hilham, Clarks-

ville, or Celina. If a man wasn't interested in begonias, his wife was. My grandmother had a collection. Cousin Dolly gave her the elephant ears, I believe, and Aunt Tiny contributed the devil's tongue. ( Aunt Tiny was the lady who in vengeful spirit put red pepper in the starch for her husband's work shirts.)

I knew the ticket woman had watered begonias for her grandmother just as I had. The only difference was that I had done it only in summer vacations, while she had done it all the year around. I earned good money for it and she went unpaid. And now she missed her begonias. And she did not know exactly what she was missing.

When I came out of the theater , the sun was shining. The woman was still at her window. "It's a nice day , isn't it?" I said. "Yes, sure," she answered.

I turned to go down the boulevard. Across the street a little hemstitching shop was closing , the management evidently moving. A row of begonias and geraniums stood in the show window. A short, fat woman with crisp curled gray hair came out the door carrying a begonia in one hand and a geranium in the other. I watched her give them to the woman at the ticket window. My friend thanked the proprietor of the hemstitching establishment, put on her hat and coat, took the potted plants, and walked with her friend towards Church Street.

TIME DRIVETH ON MY LADY

ROBERT A. STEW ART - after Ronsard

Time driveth on, my lady, driveth on; Nay ! 'Tis not Time (Time stays) ; ' tis we that pass To lodge w ith cold obli v ion, b eauty gone, Wasted and withered like the yellowing grass. New loves , unfostered , fade beyond repair. Love me, th e n , fairest , while thou still art fair.

WIND

GARLAND RICHARDSON

"Another bottle of wine, Jacques!" The man spoke moodily and almost inadvertently.

"What kind, monsieur?" The landlord attended eagerly. "Oh, any kind. No, give me cognac." "Yes, monsieur."

Philippe turned to his two companions. "And just to think that Frarn;ois will never more drink with us." His face was contorted with pain. "Mort de Dieu, it is awful." His head fell forward on the table. The others looked at him pityingly while Jacques placed the cognac on the table.

Henri put his hand gently on Philippe's shoulder. "Come, Philippe, it is all over now. Frarn;ois would not have had you grieve so. There was nothing you could have done, just as there was nothing we could have done."

Philippe poured out a glass with trembling hand. " You know how it happened?"

They nodded.

He drank the glass at one gulp, and began laughing, at first softly and bitterly, then more loudly and yet more loudly, until his voice broke in hysterical sobs.

"No," he almost shouted, "you do not know. Only I know."

Marie glanced at Henri quickly and then stretched out her hand. "Tell us about it , Philippe," she murmured, as her hand gently stroked his, "tell us about it. Telling it will ease you of the horror of it."

He turned blood-shot eyes upon her. "Yes, I will tell you. For you two were his friends." He hesitated for a moment, listening to the low moan of the wind outside.

"Last summer in June -only six months ago -I met Elconeme, I wish that you could see Elconeme as I saw her. Her hair was that golden bronze that I think was first worn by Guinevere, wife of Arthur ; and no else has ever had her eyes save that wondrous Helen of Ilium. And her hands were soft and quick in their movements, and very gentle, like to imprisoned doves longing for freedom.

And they were whiter than alabaster. When they gripped me, I felt warm fires, ardently seething under her snowy skin, that set my own blood all ablaze.

"I met her on a June day; and on a June night I told her of my love for her, of my devotion, my adoration, my passion. And she listened to me, and did not seem ill-pleased."

"You, Philippe, you, the misogynist, you loved her?" Marie spoke wonderingly.

"Yes, I, Philippe, the misogynist, I loved her, as I should have loved many another woman had I not feared them all. But she broke down my fear, and in place of it raised veneration. So it was that I lived through the summer. June and its soft nights passed, and I heeded it not; July and its scorching noons passed, and I heeded it not; August passed, and I was still living in the springtime.

"I know, Henri, that you will laugh at me, you who have been in love so many times; and you, Marie, who have driven so many men mad, will smile. But to me it was all new; and I yet marvel at the wonder of it, at the glory of it." He looked before him with unseeing eyes. "So tender, and so sweet, and so sympathetic and yet so ardent."

The wind sobbed under the eaves.

"I told her of my friend, the chivalrous poet, Franr;ois. Always when I did not speak of her I spoke of him. And curiosity began to eat into her and to consume her, curiosity and a great desire to see this paragon among men. And I, proud of my friend, and proud of her, took him to see her." He became silent.

Marie and Henri interchanged a rapid glance. "They loved each other?" Marie spoke hesitatingly.

Philippe remained silent.

Marie stroked his arm. "My poor Philippe."

He spoke slowly and with effort. "Elconeme fell in love with Franr;ois. His poetic passion, the music of his songs, his strange fervours and curious depressions, all attracted her, drew her even against her will. She won,hiped the unknown, the mysterious, the unexpected in him. But he was my friend ; and to be a friend meant much to Franr;ois. So he never went near her save when I, forced by her importunity, led him there. And he saw that it made me unhappy, so he began making excuses, and it was but seldom that I could take him to her."

The nsmg wind whistled eerily around the corners. Philippe stiffened and then began shuddering. "Do you not hear him calling to me now ? Look through that window !"

Involuntarily the others followed his gaze, fascinated. A quarter moon rode crazily in the heavens, the wisps of cloud that chased each other across its surface giving it a wild, drunken, mad appearance. Now and then the wind, ever growing stronger, would shake the house, like the hand of some mighty Titan playing with a bauble for a moment before crushing it and flinging it away. And the moon seemed the eye of the Titan, half closed, ironically interested, amused with the fearful amusement of a drunken giant. Marie and Henri shivered and looked again at the lanterns swinging from the rafters above their heads. But Philippe continued to gaze, as though bewitched, fascinated, compelled.

He went on, almost in a mumble. "Yes, he is calling. 'Come to me, Philippe, for ever did I act the true friend by you. Come to me, Philippe, and all shall be forgotten between us. Come to me, Philippe, let us lose ourselves in the thought of each other. Come to me, Philippe !' Can you not hear him?" He started to rise from his seat. Henri's hand struck him violently on the shoulder, forcing him again down on the bench.

He turned wild, wondering eyes upon them. "What is it?" He shook his head sharply and rubbed his forehead. "I remember."

"Perhaps you had better tell us the rest some other time, Philippe," Henri suggested.

"No. Let me tell it now. Then mayhap I can sleep tonight. I have not slept for three nights.

"Three days ago I was in his room when a boy brought him a note. He read it, seemed displeased, glanced at me, and stuffed it in his pocket. He began putting on his cloak, explaining that he had suddenly been called away, but that he would be back soon.

"When he had gone, I noticed the note lying on the floor. It must have fallen from his pocket while he was putting on his cloak. It was from Elconeme, telling him that if she did not see him within an hour, she would kill herself.

"I found myself in the street, running like mad. I think I was mad. I must have been mad. I was mad. And in me ever mounted red rage.

"I saw him turn the corner of the street where she lived. He was walking slowly, his head hanging as if in pain or in thought.

THE MESSENGER

"I crept up behind him gently, softly, like a cat.

"As the dagger went into his back, he uttered a little moaning cry, and fell, turning as he fell, so that he lay on his back. I knelt over him and looked into his face."

The others sat as if petrified.

"And when I saw his eyes, I knew what I had done. In them was unbelief, and then surprise, and then pain. And I believed that I saw pardon and forgiveness before the light flickered out."

The wind was now a great organ, chanting a minor chord until it became maddening.

"I went up to the room of Elconeme. She shrieked when she saw me instead of Frarn;ois. I took her by the hand and led her down to his body."

He stared wildly around as though trying to shut out some inward v1s1on.

"And then you killed her." Henri almost whispered. Philippe nodded.

The wind rose to mad frenzy of delirium.

Philippe became rigid. Then, before the others could move, he sprang up and dashed out of the inn, moaning incoherently.

The others looked after him, spellbound. Henri suddenly realized that Marie was weeping voicelessly. He put his arm around her protectingly. "Come, Marie, let me take you home."

He pushed on the door. It would not open. He pushed again, harder. Then he threw his weight against it, and it opened reluctantly. Marie stumbled and looked down. "Henri !"

Henri started back. At his feet, with a yearning cast to his face, and a dagger in his breast, lay Philippe. Henri shivered and put his arm around Marie. "Let us go home, Marie, for this wind is very icy."

WITH THE PLAYERS

Local collegiate lovers of falseface and footlights are to be given their full share of divertissement, as the so charming French would say, during this present 1925 Fall Term. As the noble sport of football ( which, according to the late Elbert Hubbard, bears the same relation to education as bull-fighting does to farming) bites the dust, along about the time when its most vociferous adherents are biting the fowl hight gobbler, the University Players will open our own particular histrionic season with a presentation of "Grumpy," the play in which Cyril Maude during recent, and not so recent years, made such a collosal success. Mr. Jimmie Carver who has returned to Richmond College after certain venturings upon the lighted platform, will essay the title role. The date will fall in the last week of ovember; the place, campus or town, with odds in favor of the latter.

The ambitions and activities of this earnest group of young persons do not terminate at this point. During the first week in December a group of one-act plays will be presented, viz. : ( 1) an adaptation, by Miss Alpha Gordon, Westhampton '25, of Donn Byrne's Messer Marco Polo; (2) Synge's In the Shadow of the Glen; and (3) Thiwsday Evening, a modern comedy. Although these are not yet fully cast, we learn that Lewyn Davis, who came so strongly into the public eye in Fashion, the Senior play of last year, has parts in both Marco Polo and The Shadow of the Glen.

Moyer Mahaney, scenic director, ably assisted by Misses Marian Marsh and Margaret Harlan, is, we are given to understand, constructing a miniature theatre (peopled with puppets and all the requisite appurtenances of a real sure-enough stage) which will be used for purposes of publicity in connection with offerings of the players. It will be erected in one of the windows of a down-town department store. The University Players, are certainly, to use a collegiate phrase, "looking up."

This space will hereafter be used to review the various offerings of the players. The present article, we admit, sounds suspiciously like a blurb, but let all ham-actors and cabotins herewith take notice. Mercy will not be shown; and the critical shillalah will descend with no light hand upon such heads as present a fair target.

A. McS.

THE SHRINE

MARGOT MEUNIER

One Easter morning, when I was a child, I found a large white sugar egg in the center of the breakfast table. The surface of the egg was covered with rough sugar crystals, and was adorned with occasional groups of pink roses. At the pointed end, a small opening covered with glass afforded a peep-hole to the scene within. There two gayly dressed children gathered flowers at the foot of a snow-covered mountain.

When the meal was over, the egg was removed to a small table in the corner of the front room where it remained for the following week. Awed by its beauty and admonished against touching it, I worshiped before it as before an altar. In the corner it glittered and was reflected in the dark polished surface of the table. To me, in adoration before my first idol, there seemed to be about it that same soft glow which surrounds a holy object. A circle of suffused light was around it like that which I had seen radiating from the silver altar pieces at the Easter morning mass.

To this shrine I led Franc;oise Basquette, my small playmate , and converted her to the worship of the sugar idol. Hand in hand we stood before it, or, stretching on our toes, peeped through the small glass window at the beauty held within.

When next I remember our idol, I was in the stone flagged court of the school of St. Marie de Strasses. The egg was clutched in my hands as I was seated on a bench in the corner of the court . Franc;oise Basquette was with me. We bent in exquisite delight above the egg. How we happened to have brought it to school I do not know. Small shivers of joy passed over our bodies as we looked upon its rounded glistening form. We gazed our fill through the glass window at the couple within. We talked of the boy with his little red cap, and we admired the girl with her fair curls. We longed to gather flowers with them in the shadow of the snowcovered mountain peak. And we anticipated the joy of showing the sugar egg to our schoolmates.

Then suddenly it fell and lay in scattered fragments on the grey flagging. The shining surface was changed to soggy bits of sticky candy, while the pink roses had melted quite away. The scene within the peep-hole was but a dismal piece of colored cardboard.

For a moment I stared dumbly at the pavement, then, with that childish faith which did not yet perceive that life tears down what wishes cannot raise, came to me the determination to overcome the horror.

"Franc;oise," I said, "we are just dreaming. We have gone to sleep. Hold my hand tight. We shall soon wake up."

How quietly we sat there staring at the pavement. Suddenly an exultation seized me. It was all a dream; it couldn't be anything else. The heap of scattered sugar was not our treasure. The Easter idol was still whole. I could feel it in my lap. My hands closed about its roughness, and I felt the jagged flowers against my palms. Some of the children passed us, curious at our set faces. "Leave us alone," we said in drowsy voices, "we are asleep." Our grim little faces must have assured them, for they went away. Nothing had happened. It was all a dream. Franc;oise and I had dreamed a bad dream, but we were waking up, we were waking up:

As if from across vast spaces came the ringing of the school bell. Frarn;oise and I looked at each other, silently. We rose and went towards the door, like two little ghosts whom dawn had called back to their graves, leaving broken bits of sugar candy on the grey stones.

BOOK REVIEWS

THE TATTLER, Randolph-Macon Woman's College, Lynchburg, Va., 1924-1925.

We have examined rather carefully four issues of Randolph - Macon's "Tattler" for 1924-1925. In its pages we find beauty-beauty of form and of matter. The emphasis which is laid on poetry and the critical essay gives dignity to the magazine. One finds real intellectual stimulus in them, too. The atmosphere of Randolph-Macon is apparently conducive to the writing of poetry. Possibly this flourishing department of poetry overbalances the magazine, but nevertheless, one can pardon a surplus of excellence. The paucity of short stories is conspicuous. To our mind this is of little moment, since we admire the idealist who dares to write essays in this day of the short story's triumph. The one editorial is frequently good, but we think there might be more than one. At times the poems are poorly spaced. A single poem usually looks best in the middle of a page. Very brief poems which occupy a whole page might advantageously be placed at the bottom of one of the pages at whose top are only a few concluding lines to a prose sketch.

In an early issue of the "Tattler" we find the editor expressing a wish that the field of literary criticism had more supporters among students. She should feel gratified by the successful accomplishments of Miss Loving in her "Conrad-An Appreciation," and "Lord Dunsany-Dramatist." In the former the writer at moments really grasps the almost intangible clue to Conrad's art, for which many of us have, in vain, struggled.

Among the sketches "Mitchell" and "Dispositions" stand out. The first has good suspense, and an amusing, appropriate conclusion. "Dispositions" presents vividly the old theme of two women envying each other. The group of character sketches in "Corbett" are very realistic.

The poetry is the best part of the magazine. "Hill Sadness" suggests all ineffable sorrow.

"There is a sadness that the far hills hide, Deep in their ancient shadows all the day."

We have nearly all experienced the haunting melancholy of far off hills. "Midnight Moon" is effective. In its vigorous picturization of the crucifix formed by a black pine top against the moon's glare, it reminds one of the description of the rare white cross wrought by the tropical sunset clouds in William Stidger's "Book of Sunsets." One of the most delicious poems is "Trains at Night." We immediately warm to the exuberance of the mood.

"Trains at night aren't trains at all As they go dashing through; They're pirate ships on lone high seas, Each with its rollicking crew, A pirate ship on the sea of night, With its rollicking, roistering crew."

In conclusion, we wish to say that we consider the "Tattler" an unusually good college magazine. J. McC.

THE SLAVE SHIP. By Mary Johnston. Little, Brown, Boston.

Miss Johnston's rich historic background shows quite plainly in this, her latest novel, which deals with the Eighteenth century slave trade. Her knowledge of the make-up, and the routine of those old wind-driven slavers is almost astonishing, and it shows that the author has received first-hand information about these things. We are inclined to think that she obtained most of it from her father, an eminent statesman, a gallant soldier, and a faithful citizen in the troublous times that followed the war.

Quite as astonishing as her knowledge of fundamentals are the entrancing African atmospheric effects which she attains. The lives of those who are involved, either through fate or choice, in the inhuman practice; the homes and environments of these men; the treatment of the black and ignorant slaves, are all treated masterfully in the quaint and effective style Miss Johnston possesses.

"The Slave Ship" is an historic novel of the slave traffic. Young David Scott, a red-headed, energetic sort of fellow, finds himself in the close, stuffy dungeon at Culloden because of his repeated activities in behalf of the Stuart cause. After a vain attempt to escape (he is caught as he emerges from a burning cottage set on fire by his captors), he is sent in chains to Virginia as an indentured servant. His master was good to himas far as goodness went in those days - but one day the master noticed his youngest daughter falling in love with David. The kiss, for it was only one, caused David to be sold, this time to a cruel owner, from whom he later escaped. A kind trader befriended him, and carried him down the James River on his raft, where he obtained work on an ocean-going ship. This vessel turned out to be the slave ship, "Janet."

Because of his past experiences, David's conscience revolted, but circumstances made him stay, and finally, on the death of "good Bartram," he became captain of the slaver. Later on, after he had given up the practice, and was waiting in Virginia for a ship to take him to Massachusetts, he was recognized, and forced to work out the rest of his term.

Two very distinct lives are dealt with in this story - David's inner life, and David's outer life. It is a continuous conflict between the outer life where human necessity plays an important part in making him remain in the trade; and his inner life, where slavery is repugnant to his very being, and his soul is continually revolting against it. For this reason "The Slave Ship" is a phychological study within a novel-the searching of David's soul.

The following excerpts are taken from uncertain periods in David's life on the "Janet" :

"I could earn something doubtless - enough to live doubtless - and somehow keep a still tongue doubtless - and the years might pass like heavy lilies, growing on the edge of mire, falling, one by one, upon the mire.

"The sea and Bartram. The sea and Bartram and the 'Janet.' Turning in bed, I made that choice, flung my hands over my eyes and went to sleep.

THE MESSENGER

"But waking in the night, I heard as though it were the echo of a deep voice. 'There are other ships besides slave. ships coming, going, and you might go upon one.'

"I said back: 'I should not be sq advantageously placed. I should be under much more restraint.' And turned upon my side and went to sleep again."

And:

"My own man. I am my own man. David Scott, you are your own man. Then why the devil am I so unhappy?"

"The Slave Ship" possesses the first great essential demanded by the reading public, namely, it is a well-told story. David Scott, the redheaded Highlander, is one of the most appealing figures Miss Johnston has ever drawn. One never loses sight of him, and he grows in complexity and in pathos until he seems little like a fictional hero, but rather like an archetype of humanity. The subjective agonies of Scott, who is torn between comfort and self-interest, and the horrors of the slave trade, are so gripping that the reader is unwillingly involved.

Moyer Mahaney.

THE NEW COVER

Our new cover design is the result of the combined efforts of Miss Margaret Harlan and Mr. Lloyd Caster. Mr. Caster is a Freshman in Richmond College and a graduate of John Marshall High School, where he was a frequent contributor to the art work of its various publications.

THE MESSENGER

RICHMOND COLLEGE

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CAUSERIE EDITORIALE

"THAT HE WHO RUNS MAY READ"

Attracting attention is an art as old as the first rouge pot and as ancient as the first war , cry. At times it has been used to advantage and at others it has been miserably mistreated. Posters are a crystallized effort to attract attention, not alone a study in public psychology, but an art. Two qualities make a good poster; an idea conveyed in vivid illustration, and information simmered down to a few potent words. These two qualities must be in absolute and tasteful balance. If ornament exceed information, the sense of the poster is lost; if the lettering overbalance the ornament, there is sacrificed that receptive frame of mind in which the public is put by a good poster and the graphic means of portraying the subject.

A good poster is a piece of dramatic art, the most dramatic art because it must present an entire effect, its significance and atmosphere, all at one glance. From the usual piece of decoration it must vary as the one act play differs from the short story. It must be

intense, vivid, emotional. Strong hues should be mixed and striking contrasts used. No limpid scene is fit subject for a poster. A . silver grey stream winding through a summer wood is a delightful picture but a weak subject for a poster. Three grey elephants led by scarlet coated negroes, all in relief against a black velvet curtain,that is material for a poster.

To obtain this effect one uses the most dramatic colors, complementary harmonies, or striking analagous harmonies of varying intensity. One of the three neutrals, black, white or gray is used with one color, usually an intense or standard hue. Two colors in strong contrasts are the most successful with perhaps a touch of a third hue. More than three colors detract from the effect of contrast. Simple, concrete and exaggerated designs are best. One strong figure is worth a dozen laden with weak detail. One central motif or figure dominates the design; clear, exact phraseology conveys the information. Such a poster is quickly perceived by the senses and long retained by the mind, but it is one of the hardest and most tedious things under heaven to make.

M. w. H.

BATTLE FLAGS AND TEA CUPS

The sudden autumnal shower caught me fairly. It was shortly after four o'clock in the afternoon and I was hurrying rapidly through the park . . . Odette had said, "Four-thirty, sharp," and moments allotted by Odette are not to be thoughtlessly squandered. They are far too precious for that; one counts them as a jeweler counts his pearls -minutely, carefully But the downpour was so formidable, such tremendous sheets of water fell from heavy black clouds, that I was forced to seek shelter. I had le£t A vallon early that morning, and had not come prepared for so damp a reception. Nor, as I swung down the Avenue, had I noticed the gathering storm . tea with Odette . . . of course the world was all "couleur de rose." And then, the deluge.

I dashed into the open door -a sort of side door -of the nearest building. It was a large Greco-Roman structure of white limestone, and the basement was a museum the oddest, queerest sort of a museum. Only one word adequately describes it: a French word, "pot-pourri." In short, it was an immense municipal "what-not," and as the heavens seemed to be in no relenting mood, I busied myself, as a means of throttling my impatience, with an inspection of the room's motley contents.

The exhibits ran chiefly to natural history. There was no end of stuffed birds, bears, raccoons, foxes, deer, and fish. Dozens upon dozens of eggs lay displayed in neat glass enclosed showcases eggs of every imaginable size, and shape, and color. There were great sections of entire tree trunks, thick planks of polished timber, heavy chunks of iron ore, and enormous blocks of solid coal transported intact from the far-away mountains. One of these weighed two tons. There was a case filled with little, brass models of agricultural machinery, and another bulging with various colonial antiquities -bellows, spinning wheels, diaries, and so on, a listing of which would stump even Homer himself. In the midst of all this, stands a tall, octagon-shaped case filled with battle flags. A vivid splash of color in a somewhat gloomy setting. There were national tricolors, red, white, and blue; there were the scarlet banners of artillery; there were the deep blue colors of the infantry . arresting, startling, a bit stirring.

They intrigue me, these flags, and I stand a long time looking at them. They are not old. As battle flags go they are very young. . . . One may read certain words printed on little silk streamers attached to their staff s-"St. Mihiel," "Picardie," "Meuse-Argonne," "Chateau-Thierry." . And they seem somewhat forlorn, these flags, as if possibly they were not quite at ease in this basement gloom. Battle flags in such curious company seems a bit unusual to me.

I sit down nearby ( the rain still pouring) and study their motionless, gold-fringed folds. A picture flashes into my mind, a picture I had seen recently in a magazine, a picture of the Invalides at Paris the chapel of the Invalides at Paris, with all the old, tattered ensigns of Napoleon hung high about the ceiling. Colors captured at Auterlitz, at Wagram, at Marengo. Eagles torn and stained with blood at Moscow, and Waterloo. And it comes to me then, musing, that perhaps, after all, there is nothing incongruous about the setting of these flags, these flags which stare me silently in the eye. ·

In olden days the banners of conquerors were housed in some time-stained cathedral, some ancient tower, some hall consecrated to their protection. But in those days men fought for curious intangible things ideals, creeds, the smile of a woman. Things of air, perhaps, -immaterial, worthless, -but, somehow, strangely stirring. Today, it is a "place in the sun" which sets the caissons to rolling; it is coal, and iron, and oil which slaps a musket

upon the shoulder of tall, young lads, and turns the turbines (in more ways than one) of long, grey ships of war. So then, I say to myself, what can be more fitting than that these bits of colored cloth should rest here in the midst of the gods they once protected that lump of coal over there, this mass of crude ore, those great slabs of polished lumber. And I begin to wonder, vaguely, if those lads who plodded through many a league of foreign mud, weary, white-lipped , with throbbing hearts-those who left their bones in some cabbage field of France, and those who brought these flags proudly back home again -I begin to wonder if they had ever thought of this whole, mad business as a struggle for dividends, a struggle for discounts, and for profits. Little thinking was done just then, and Youth is always Youth when the colors whip about the staff, and the roll of an ass's hide sets the pulse to racing. Marching men do not think. Only afterwards do the "'eroes of the nation" have leisure to reflect. And should a chap,I murmur to myself, - who once trudged heavily along beneath the folds of these banners see them now in their setting of timber, and coal, and cornfield peas, and should he smile a bit cynically at our fine phrases of '17-'18, truly I could not with justice reprove him. Have we not shoved the ideals for which he gave youth into the cellars of our minds as we have thrust his banners into the basements of our buildings?

A slender ray of white sunlight slips through a tall window and strikes the gilded top of a flag staff. The little blue words of the streamer leap out at me, "ALSACE , OCTOBER,1918."

As I hurry out into the park, into the fresh, sweet-smelling park with its dripping leaves of gold , and yellow, and red, it does not seem quite fair to me. It does not seem quite fair to me, that I should be walking briskly in the sunlight, while those old-young battle flags hang silently in their basement gloom. I think of those lads over whom these flags once whipped bravely on other sunlit-days, and it does not seem fair to me that I should have youth, and health and Odette. L. L. J.

Medical College of Virginia

STUART McGUIRE, M. D., President

New College Building, Completely Equipped and Modern Laboratories, Extensive Dispensary Service. Hospital Facilities Furnish 400 Clinical Beds; Individual Instruction; Experienced Faculty; Practical Curriculum. Eighty-Seventh Session Opens September, 1925

For Catalogue or Informatfon , Address

J. R. McCAULEY,Secretary

s Fi ll ed by Mai l REAL FLOWER SERV I CE

WHEN yo u order flowers from this good Flowe r Shop you get the u tmost in se r vice that modern facilities and ca reful attention to details can prod u ce.

Mail or telephone o r ders receive the same attentio n that yo u wo u ld get i f yo u came persona ll y to the store. RATCLIFFE & TANNER, Inc. Zll N . SIXTH STREET Phones Mad 6080-6081

Cavedo's Drug Store

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On gridiron or court always demand equipment marked "SPALDING." They know that only after an implement is as near perfect as human hands can make it, it is offered to the public. "Spalding Made" is a quality guarantee.

i..Send for a catalogue.

Fire Insurance Should Be Bought

FROM EXPERIENCED AGENTS

We have represented the Liverpool & London and Globe lnsuranc~ Co., Ltd., for more than fifty years.

''NEW ST AR'' EXAMINATION PADS

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Are used in Kroog ' s (formerly Abrams') Cakes to give it that delicious homemade flavor and golden color. Demand the genuine of your dealer-if he doesn't handle Kroog's (formerly Abrams') Cakes, phone us

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EDWIN A. ALDERMAN, President

THE TRAINING GROUND OF ALL THE PEOPLE

Departments represented: The College, Graduate Studies, Education, Engineering, Law, Medicine, The Summer Quarter. Also Degree Courses in Fine Arts, Architecture, Business and Commerce. Tuition in Academic Departments free to Virginians. All expenses reduced to a minimum. Loan funds available for men and women. Address

THE REGISTRAR, University, Va.

Crozer Theological Seminary

Tuition and room rent free. Scholarships available to approved students. Seminary within 13 miles of Philadelphia. Metropolitan advantages. Seminary's relations to University of Pennsylvania warrant offer of the following courses :

1. Regular Couraea for Preachers and Pastora. Seminary. Degree of B. D. or Diploma.

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For Information Address

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Harper Method

"Compare the Work"

ROY AL TYPEWRITERS FOR RENT Special Rates to Students

FACTORY REBUILT MACHINES FOR SALE Easy Payments

Royal Typewriter Co., Inc.

A. BARTLETT, Mgr.

737 East Main Street, Richmond, Va.

CABELL PHILLIPS, Representative

The Student

OF THE UNIVERSITY OF RICHMOND

Will enjoy "browsing" in our store; there is no obligation to make a purchase; you are welcome here at all times.

CREAM''

Style Still Lurks In Your Old Felt

- and we will restore it completely to its or iginal appearance. It's surprising how thoroughly we clean old hats. That's why we say "Save your old hat."

LADIES!

Hats Remodeled to the New Styles

Bring us your last season's hat and we will remode l it to the new styles - at small cost. New models to t r y on and se l ec t from .

COLLEGE STUDENTS

Especially Invited to

The First Baptist Church

CORNER BROAD AND TWEL F'l'H STREETS

REV. GEO. W. McDANIEL, D. D., Pastor

Church Services: Preaching Sunda y s 11 :00 A. M. and 8 :00 P. M. Prayer Meetin g Wednesday 8 :15 P. M.

Sunday School: Meets at 9 :30 A. M. Bara ca, Philathea and other organized Bible Classes.

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