Issuu

Volume LIV

DECEMBER, 1926

Number 2

University of Richmond Students Cordially Invited to

ST. PAUL'S (NINTH

AND

GRACE

STREETS-OPPOSITE

REV . BEVERLEY

D. TUCKER,

SUNDAY

CAPITOL

SQUARE)

JR., D. D., RECTOR

SERVICES

9 :45 A. M.-Sunday

School

10 :00 A. M .-Bible

Classes

11 :00 A. M.-Morning

Prayer and Sermon

8 :00 P. M .-Evening

Prayer and Sermon

Vested Choir of 40 Voices With the Following Soloists: Tenor-Joseph

Whittemore

Soprano-Mrs.

Bass-Norman

Call

Alto-Mrs.

Frances W. Reinhart

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 leaders and others are among the most beautiful in the entire country.

A liberal Christian message, for thoughtful and forward-looking young men and women is preached from its pulpit.

MAKE

THIS

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CHURCH

HOME

WHILE

LIVING

RICHMOND

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CHARACTER

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R. A. PYLE Cleaning & Pressing Works "WE NEVER DISAPPOINT" Phone

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STREET

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 LANSFIELD

MAY

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.

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 VJ,;imen. Students who so desire can work their way. For catalogue, ing entrance

into

booklet, any

or views,

College,

or other information

address

F. W. BOATWRIGHT

the Dean

concern-

or Secretary.

- President

CONTENTS Tms

IssuE

HILDA'S PRAYER (Poem)

W. A. Shell, Jr.

SCISSORSTO GRIND (Short Story)

Margaret

Knight

EPISODE PRINTANIERE (Play)

Leslie L. Jones

HIGH SUMMER AND A PANAMA

Jean MacCarty

A PRICE Is PAID (Short Story)

Elinor Physioc

Anderson

A. McN eill

ENCHANTMENT (Poem)

CELLULOID BUTTONS (Play) BuLL MARKET! (Sketch) EDITORIAL

Mildred Warren

W.E.

This Number THE CONTRIBUTORS to this number are those who because of past literary achievement are at present members of either Sigma Upsilon of Richmond College or Writers' Club of Westhampton College. SIGMA UPSILON is a National Literary Fraternity. It was established some twenty years ago, and at present numbers thirty-six chapters throughout the country. The University of Richmond unit is known as Writers' Chapter and was chartered in 1921. I ts membership has included the most promising and outstanding of those students possessing a real interest in things literary. Members to Sigma Upsilon are chosen on the basis of literary ability and social qualities. Chapter membership is restricted to twelve active members, the present roll of Writers' Chapter being composed of the following: Professor C. L. Dodds, Leslie L. Jones, J. B. Kincannon, Warren A. McNeill, Willis A. Shell, William E. Slaughter. The purpose of Sigma Upsilon is two-fold: To reward with membership college men who display exceptional literary ability, especially those who contribute to publications, and to provide for the active membership such programs as will encourage still greater literary appreciation and creative effort. THE WRITERS' CLUB is a group of kindred spirits whose common interests are the appreciation of good literary endeavor and the In this issue of THE MESSENGER, the encouragement of writing. Writers' Club has tried to show what it stands for in aiming towards high form, as well as individual expression. Membership in the club is supposed to be a recognition of ability, originality and understanding. Membership is limited to ten. At present there are only six members: Elinor Physioc, Elizabeth Jones, Jean MacCarty, Virginia McDaniel, Mildred Anderson, Margaret Knight.

THE

MESSENGER COPYRIGHT

VoL. LIi

1926

BY W.

DECEMBER,

SLAUGHTER

1926

HILDA'S PRAYER w. A. s., JR. Oh God, have patience as I pray! I beg strike me not deadLet not the beauties of the day Nor night, when day has fled, Be known to this my unborn child! For, God, of this, my son to be, I fain would have a kingA man of men-a majesty, Who through his acts would bring A conquered world unto his feet. A Master Builder I would want Who, envied by mankind, Could laugh and turn their every taunt Into a thong to bind Their very souls beneath his feet. An artist I would have him be As man ne'er saw before, Whose smallest work could rival TheeAnd scenes You have in storeWhose art could put Thine own to shame. And I would have him be so kindAs none have been beforeThat new-made mothers would not mind To leave before his door The first child that to her was born! Such power is only half, 0 God, I fain would have him win; So may I bury 'neath the sod, My unborn child-my sin Of coveting a Son like Thine.

No. 2

Scissors MARGARET

to Grind KNIGHT

The road was dusty and hot as Mil Bunt shut the gate and turned towards town. He smiled his gentle half smile as he waved to the girl on the steps, then bowed his head to the scorching heat of the sun, and plodded on through the dust. Sixty-two years old he was, that day, and the grind stone he wore strapped to his back was beginning to grow heavy. As he motioned the deaf old dog at his side to go ahead, Mil wondered if by shortening the straps holding up the stone, he could make his load seem lighter. He decided to try it Sunday morning when there were no scissors to sharpen. The thought of a Sunday morning brought a soft gleam to his brown eyes, and the grind stone felt lighter. Sunday · morning-he could see the kitchen of the cottage, small and spotless, and Flora singing as she stuck an inquiring straw into the fragrant lightness of a cake, or throwing back her head to laugh delightedly at the stories Mil told her of his customers of the day. Sunday morning-with his earnings of the week added to the money from Flora's chickens, and recorded in the blue composition book, while plans for improving the cottage were discussed. The afternoon was sultry, but Mil could feel the patched old rocking chair under him, and the shadows of the peach tree covering him as he sat by the kitchen window, rocking, and singing softly in time with Flora, while she kneaded dough with her slender brown hands. "Scissors, scissors to grind?" chanted the old man, stooping to pat the lank hound at his side. The road lay quiet in the August heat. A gentle road it was, broad and worn. The old wagon ruts once cut into it had broadened out to fit automobile wheels, but the imprint of little bare feet still showed in its sand. Many feet had passed over that road since it was first a trail, leading through forests now vanished. Young feet, hopeful feet, had hastened along lightly, and cold, tired feet had plodded through its dust. Mil sighed. It was always hard for him to remember that he was an old man. He had never intended being other than young. There were men like that, men who lived, and fought, and laughed-men who cared so little for youth that it clung to them; men who called the world's bluff, and then paused only between a laugh and a song, to try a new existence. Mil had meant to lead such a life, he should have lived one, should have-if-The grind stone was suddenly heavy on Mil Hunt's shoulders. It had been almost thirty years since he had first trudged along this road, fresh from the excitement and glory of the Spanish-American War.

SCISSORS TO GRIND

Young, he had been, fired with the thrill of danger, and experience, and carefree in the glory of living. Headed for nowhere in particula r, but confident of his welcome when he once got there, he had stayed one night at a farmhouse by the side of this road. Stayed the night because of the blue eyes of a girl whose yellow hair was like buttercups, and whose name, Lace Lancey, was as softly appealing as she herself. The next day Mil had started on down the road, but after a mile he turned back and asked the farmer for a job to last a day or two. He was offered food and lodging in return for sharpening farm tools, and for four days he turned the grind stone light-heartedly, content to watch the girl who played at her work, and smiled at him as she passed. At the end of that time Mil started resolutely down the road, ready for new scenes, but as the mile lengthened behind him, his eyes grew sober at the recollection of tears trembling on yellow lashes, and his lips became dry with the memory of soft warm kisses. After a month he had gone back to the farmhouse, and finding blue eyes and red lips as lovely as their memory had been, he lost all desire for travel and adventure, and found life and love in the old farmhouse very sweet. The death of her father left Lace possessor of the farm, and together they planned great things for the future. Five years of marriage saw Mil still satisfied with the quietness of his life, but after the death of their child he had grown restive. Lace, unselfish in her own sorrow, had seen his discontent, and begged him to satisfy his unrest. Mil had felt his weakness as he started off down the road, leaving Lace to manage the farm, and his worship of her tender faithfulness had swept over him afresh. "Scissors, scissors to grind?" sang Mil Hunt. Nick, the deaf old hound, stopped to rub his head against Mil, who rubbed the shaggy back with an affectionate hand. "Why, Nick, a burr tangled up in your coat? that thing out."

Poor fellow, let's get

The dog could feel the tenderness that he could not hear, and wagged a dilapidated tail. Mil sat down on the roots of a tree, and began working the burr out of Nick's hair. The road was deserted, and no life showed in the houses that lined its dusty edges. Yes, quiet those houses were this morning, not wide awake and inquisitive as on that morning thirty-five years ago when Mil had come back from his trip. There had been many people about, on that morning, men who nodded to him and watched him curiously, and women who spoke with pity in their voices. But Mil had wasted little

THE

MESSENGER

time in wonder at the att ention he received. Instead he had hurried along the road towards the farm, straining his eyes for a glimpse of Lace. He had not seen her from the gate, and had hastened up the path-"Well, Nick, that's out now.

Let's be getting along."

Mil straightened his bent shoulders and shifted the leather straps on his back. "Scissors, scissors to grind?" he moved on down the road. There hadn't been much left to live for after Lace had gone. He had always been glad he'd not known who the man was, for if he had found him during that first raging madness, Mil would have killed him. Mil Hunt, the mild, peaceful farmer of five years, vanished during those months that followed. A fury had possessed his very soul, and his efforts to kill all memory were very nearly successful. Drink had put a finish to the wreck dissolute living was making of his strong body, and death had rubbed shoulders with him in a cheap hospital on the water edge. It was after a partial recovery that :Mil Hunt started on his rambling journeys to the lands he had dreamed of as a boy. But his eyes were too sullen to see the beauty he had longed to know, and his spirit was too deeply gashed to know pleasure. He had seen all his twisted nature would allow him to see, and his snarling tongue held off any who might have made friends with him. "Scissors, scissors, any old scissors to grind?" Mil held Nick back with a protective foot as an automobile shot past. "A creature deaf as you ought to stay to home, Nick," he warned the grateful old eyes. The swirling dust from the car made the day seem hotter, and the worn rocking chair in the shadow of the peach tree seemed far away, as Mil began his slow steps. Lace's daughter by the man she'd run off with had held her mother's own sweetness in her soft blue eyes. The thought had fascinated Mil. It had been a true gesture of fate to have the child of this union do something to his heart when he'd gone clean crazy, and make him human again. He turned the bend in the road that meant he had reached the town. Lord, the man he had been that day he'd come back here after wandering for ten years! A fool of a man, wild-eyed and carrying a grouch you couldn't get within a mile of. It had been here at the corner that a woman had first recognized him, and come running to tell him about the baby Lace had sent for him to take care of, five years before. The woman who had brought it only knew that its mother was dead, and

SCISSORS TO GRIND

hadn't had another place to send it before she died. Nobody in the town had known what to do with the baby, a girl named Flora, so they'd sent it to the orphanage in the next town. Mil had rocked crazily on his feet, as this news was hurled at him. Then he had cursed the woman and staggered on. "Scissors, scissors to grind?" he rounded the corner. His soft smile was well known in the town, and scissors that could have easily clipped away without sharpening, were sent out by housewives to be ground on his stone. "Scissors, knives, knives?" called to him from a yard.

. . . Mil waved to a small boy who

"It's l\1il Hunt, l\1amma," called a girl, "haven't you got something he can mend?" The old man passed slowly down the street, his call, and gentle halfsmile bringing forth friendly greetings from all sides. The butcher had some scraps of meat he had saved for Nick, and as the hound's lean tongue gobbled them up he discussed the weather with Mil. "I guess it's mighty pretty down your way, along 'bout now, ain't it Mil?" he asked as the other started off. "Yes, right pretty," Mil agreed. "And that girl of yours-she's getting better looking every day, I do believe. And that's saying a lot, too, believe me!" · The butcher nodded his head emphatically. "Well,"

Mil smiled, "she's a mighty good girl, Ned."

"Yep, a good girl." The butcher saw a customer. "\Vell, good mornin', l\1il. Better watch that there dog of yours. He's the deafest animal I ever saw in my life. Some of these cars is liable to hit him, if you ain't careful." He moved out to the display of fish on the sidewalk, and lvfil turned the corner. The sun was unbearably hot, and Mil felt weak from his long walk. He dropped down on a doorstep, and eased the grind stone off his back. Wearily he leaned back against the door, and closed his eyes, but Nick rubbed up against his legs. Mil opened his eyes. Something was worrying the old dog, and the man, investigating, found another burr caught in the hair about the creature's lip, where it rubbed the tender skin. As Mil patiently removed the burr, the butcher's voice came to him from around the corner. "Yep," he was saying, "that's him-l\1il Hunt, one of the best men that ever lived, if he did have his wild spell."

THE

MESSENGER

Nick, after licking Mil's thin hand gratefully, stretched out in the shade of the gutter to sleep that sleep of complete abandon known only by an old, deaf dog lying in the street. A beetle turned on its back, was striking frantically at the air, as it attempted to gain a normal position before a passing foot should crush it. Mil offered a helping finger, and watched the bettle crawl away to safety.

"It was sure one wild spell, too, The butcher's voice continued. but he come back here after it was over, and did the biggest fool thing a man ever did-he took a kid out of the orphanage here at Wheelin', and raised it. And who do you think the kid was? It was his own wife's kid by another man she'd run off with while Mil was away! Yes, sir, he took that kid, and he's worked for her for twi::nty years. Worked like a fool to take care of her, and get her educated here in town, and keep that little house down the road for her." Mil wanted to move on, but he waited in spite of himself. "And say," the butcher continued, evidently addressing a newcomer to the town, "do you know that girl's just like her mother? Yes, sir! And the old man don't know nothing at all about her carrying ons ! . . . What? . . . Sure I know it-so does all the town. You see, old Mil's away most all the time, grinding scissors around the country, and she's a bad lot, all there's nobody there at the house but the girl-oh right. It's a shame, too, she's such a pretty girl. I guess if old Mil knew what she was it would about tear him up." Mil was sitting on the doorstep. He had not moved. A heavy car, driven by a boy who sang as he handled the wheel, was headed for the curbing where Nick lay sleeping. It would take a quick move on Mil Hunt's part to touch the deaf dog and awaken him to his danger. Mil Hunt sat still. There was a yelp of agony, and shouts of laughter from the car.

Episode Printaniere LESLIE

L. JONES

The Characters PERE MATHURIN (65), a village priest. MADAME BONNOT (55), his housekeeper. SUZETTE (4). AN AMERICAN TOURIST (26). MARGOT (23).

(It is a late afternoon early in May. The scene is laid in the garden of the priest's home, in the little Burgundian village of Givry-le-bas. At the right is an entrance to the house. On the left can be seen a portion of the church wall containing a ,stained glass window. A low wall of stone runs along the entire back of the stage between the church and the house. In the center of this wall is a latticed gate. The wall is not over waist high and the street runs just behind it. A cross the wall can be seen the open country: gently rolling hills, fields, and woods. A table stands under a tree at left center. PERE MATHURIN is sitting at the table reading, his back to the street. He is a l!indly-appearing old man of about sixty-five years, white haired, of medium height, but powerfully built and well kept.

The gate opens slowly and without noise, and SUZETTE, a pretty child of four years, tip-toes quietly into the garden. Hiding behind the tree, she tickles the priest on the ear with a long straw, causing him to shake his head vigorously. After several repetitions, during which she enjoys herself tremendously, the good father suspects something, and suddenly turning about discovers SUZETTE. They both laugh as he runs around the tree and catches her.) PERE MATHURIN: Ah, ha, my little farceuse, so I caught you that time. ( Taking her in his arms, he stands her upon the table.) And there you shall stay, Mademoiselle Mischief (shaking his finger at her) until, until . . . (as if thinking deeply) until you give me a real tight hug! ( SUZETTE throws her arms about the priest, hugs him tightly, then suddenly seizes his tricone, places it upon her own head, and, standing in the center of the table with her hands upon her hips, looks at him with mock seriousness.) PERE MATHURIN: You little witch! What will you be into next? ( Takes her into his arms.) I know. You will break my heart yet with the sheer loveliness of you. (Holds her from him and looks at her intently and a bit sadly.) Soon I'll be forgetting my vows and regretting a life wasted in (Holds her closely to him.) And in loneliness. A poor, futile old priest. where is mother? SUZETTE: Mama too slow. pretty flowers.

Susie run away.

Susie want to give drink to

PERE MATHURIN: So you came to see old Father Mathurin, eh? And to water his poor flowers. Well, well, Susie is a darling. And Susie shall have the very biggest cookie that Mother Bonnot has in her cupboard. 0 Mother Bonnot! Mother Bonnot! (MOTHER BONNOT, a neat looking woman door.)

of about fifty-five,

comes to the

THE

MESSENGER

PERE MATHURIN: Mother Bonnot, here is a v1s1tor to our humble kingdom. Allow me to present the Princess Carissima, Mother Bonnot. Your Highness, this is Madame Bonnot, who makes such lovely cookies as you well know. (SUZETTE curtsies, then runs and hugs MOTHER BONNOT about the knees.) PERE MATHURIN: Your very biggest cookie, Mother Bonnot, and a piece of that nice new honey comb that Madame Robinet sent us, and . . . but that's enough. We mustn't make our Princess sick. Au revoir, your Highness.

(Bows low to SUZETTE who throws him a kiss. MADAME BONNOT and SUZETTEenter the house. PERE MATHURINstands looking after them for a moment. As he turns to go back to the table, he notices THE AMERICANstanding in the open gateway. The stranger is of medium build, young, apparently twenty-six or twenty-se'Ven years old. He is rather good-looking, wears a small mustache and large shell-rimmed glasses with brown lenses. On his back is a knapsack and in his hand a stout cane He lifts his hat to the priest and bows.) PERE MATHURIN: Will you not come in, monsieur? THE AMERICAN: Thank you very much, sir. ( Comes into the garden.) I was admiring your flowers, and the quiet charm of your garden. It is somewhat warm on the highway this afternoon. PERE MATHURIN: You have come very far today? THE AMERICAN: From Ligny. PERE MATHURIN: Ligny? Thirty-two kilometres. You have done well. Surely you must be tired. Pray sit down. And then, too, you must surely be thirsty. ( Goes to door.) Mother Bonnot, a bottle of white wine, please, and some of your cakes.

(Comes back and sits down.) THE AMERICAN: You are very kind, sir, but I fear I cause you an inconvenience. PERE MATHURIN: Not at all, monsieur, not at all. It is so seldom our little village is honored by visitors nowadays. Especially visitors from America. THE AMERICAN: Ah, so you think I am an American? PERE MATHURIN: 0, yes, monsieur, quite certain. Your accent. We know Americans here in Givry. A thousand of them spent the winter here with us in 1918 and '19. They arrived right after the Armistice, a whole battalion of them, a thousand tired young lads from out the front? They rested with us until Springtime, and then went home again, leaving our little town quieter and more empty than ever. I am afraid we still miss them at times, your lively, young countrymen, although five years have slipped by since they marched away forever. THE AMERICAN: Forever? PERE MATHURIN: Aye, monsieur, forever. A few may return, now and then, at long intervals, and ask about the various people they used to know, and •.. but that will be all. Paris and the battle front, that is where the visitors go, not to little hidden villages in Burgundy.

(Enter MADAMEBONNOTwith a bottle of wine and a plate of cakes, accompanied by SUZETTE, who is carrying two tall goblets.)

EPISODE

PRINTANIERE

PERE MATHURIN: Ah, but here is relief from sad thoughts, and for the thirst of a long day's journey. You have the latter, and I, when I think of your young countrymen, have the former. MADAMEBONNOT: Monsieur

is American?

THE AMERICAN: Yes, madame. MADAMEBONNOT: Did monsieur ever know the Captain

Smith of Company

H? No, I am afraid

THE AMERICAN (smiling):

not, madame.

McPhail?

MADAMEBONNOT: Or the Sergeant

THE AMERICAN (hesitates slightly, then quietly): I believe not, Madame.

McPhail?

No,

McPhail?

MADAMEBONNOT: Oh, they were so nice, both of them. The Captain would Oh, And Sergeant McPhail. go to mass every Sunday; wouldn't he, father? Surely you must have he was so nice, so handsome, so good, so merry. No? met him in America? And then, THE AMERICAN: America, madame, is such a vast country. during the war I was rather young and a certain weakness kept me from helping very much. PERE MATHURIN: But now monsieur his health? THE AMERICAN: Both sir. kilometres today remember.

Although

is recovered?

Or does he travel

now I am very well.

for

Thirty-two

PERE MATHURIN: Come, monsieur, let us drink to the memory of your fellow countrymen, to the gay, young lads who enlivened our little village that glorious winter of the peace. THE AMERICAN: Willingly, sir. (They drink standing, then sit down.) THE AMERICAN: What

a pretty child!

(Draws SUZETTE to him.)

She's the life of our little town. So MADAME BONNOT: Isn't she really? different from the other child .ren. But, then, that is but natural, for after all, monsieur, she is a countrywoman of yours. That is, in a way. THE AMERICAN: American? MADAMEBONNOT: Oh yes. PERE MATHURIN: Pardon ingly at the American)

She is American? That

is, her mother--

me, Mother Bonnot, but Monsieur-(looks

inquir-

THE AMERICAN: Saunders. PERE MATHURIN: Monsieur

Saunders

will have supper with us and-

THE AMERICAN: But, sir, I really cannot think of letting you disturb household for me.

your

On the contrary, a pleasure PERE MATHURIN: No trouble at all, monsieur. to have you with us. Remember how seldom we have the honor of entertaining Mother Bonnot will put an extra plate on the table, and Suzette Americans. will run and see if the old brown hen hasn't laid Father Mathurin a whole

THE

MESSENGER

hatful of eggs. Eh, little one? We must make a great golden omelet for the gentleman from America . Now hurry, both of you. (SUZETTE scampers into the house.) MADAMEBONNOT: And I shall make some Beef Burgundian, like I used to make for Sergeant McPhail. Oh, monsieur, you should have known him. So nice he was, and so handsome. I cried all that night when your Americans went away. How he loved my cheese omelets. I shall make you one of those, too. (MADAME BONNOTenters house.) PERE MATHURIN: A splendid housekeeper, monsieur, b~t such a gossip, such a gossip. THE AMERICAN: She seems to have McPhail.

and a good, Christian

been very

fond

of this

woman, Sergeant

PERE MATHURIN: Yes, monsieur, she fairly worshipped him. He was the first sergeant in one of your American companies, although he was very young. He had just entered college, I believe, when your country came into the war. He lived here with us in the parish-house for nearly four months. And for four months Madame Bonnet spoiled him with her delightful cooking, while he spoiled her with his compliments and his appetite. In truth, she cooks marvelously, as you shall shortly find out for yourself. THE AMERICAN: It is very kind of you, sir, and I hope I shall be as grateful as your sergeant was. PERE MATHURIN: And I, monsieur,

I hope you will not repay us as he did.

THE AMERICAN: He was not grateful? highly of him.

Your housekeeper

seems to think

PERE MATHURIN: Ah, monsieur, but Madame Bonnot does not know. She thinks of him still as an ideal, as a gallant young soldier, as a kindly gentleman ... whereas (pauses) •.• THE AMERICAN: Yes, monsieur? PERE MATHURIN: Well, you see, monsieur, I am a poor parish priest. Poor in all things except secrets. Of these I have too great a store. At times, too heavy a store. (Sighs.)

(There

is a pause.)

THE AMERICAN: And concerning this Sergeant, you . . . Oh, sir, our army was not composed of paragons, of Roi ands, or Galahads! And yet, on the whole, they were probably no worse than other soldiers. (Pause.) May I smoke? PERE MATHURIN: Certainly, monsieur, certainly. And do have a little more wine. It is no great thing, I well know, but it may help stay your thirst. And maybe your hunger. Supper should be ready very soon now.

(He fills their glasses.

They drink.

There is a pause.)

THE AMERICAN: This sergeant of yours interests was not very great. Do you ever hear from him?

me.

I hope his offense

EPISODE

PRINTANIERE

PERE MATHURIN: Unfortunately, monsieur, we do not. did not. Today, we do not wish to hear. It is too late.

Or, that

is we

THE AMERICAN: Too late? Excuse me, father, if I appear curious, but I am somewhat of a writer, you see, and your sergeant has captured my fancy. Especially in view of the so widely different views of yourself and Madame Bonnot. PERE MATHURIN ( after slight pause) : Oh, I suppose there would be no harm in telling you. You will pass on in your travels, and it will be to you only a simple tale told by an old priest in a garden. Of course, you must say nothing to Madame Bonnot, and the other you will probably never see. Or rather you may see her presently. She is coming to confession just after the Angelus, and will pass along the road there. You will have to excuse me when the Angelus rings . I will be in the church but a short time, and then we shall have supper. (Pauses.) No, there can be no harm in telling you. It is not a long story, and now it is ended, so . . . THE AMERICAN: If there is any reason that I should not-PERE MATHURIN: Oh, not now, I should think. It was not so exceptional after all, perhaps. Similar things happened in many of our little Burgundian villages during the war, and after. But McPhail, monsieur, McPhail surprised me, disappointed me, hurt me. THE AMERICAN: Hurt you, sir?

And yet lVIadame Bonnot appears

to love

him. PERE MATHURIN: You forget, monseiur, that she knows nothing. And yet, after all, there is not much to know. He was young, handsome, maybe twenty years old, fascinating. And she, seventeen, pretty, romantic . And yet, I do not blame him entirely for what happened. Afterward, afterward, it is for that I blame him. I loved him, monsieur, loved him. But I loved her, too. I had married her father and mother. I had baptized her. I had confirmed her . And then, months after your soldiers went away, I listened to the confession of her shame. She had loved him, trusted him. One night, just before he left, one lovely night in May, they lost themselves completely. And months later when her child was born, she-THE AMERICAN: vVhat ! A child!

There

was a child?

(Rises from his seat and shows much emotion. down again.) PERE MATHURIN: Why yes, monsieur, ago?

Reco'Vers hims elf and sits

the little Suzette in the house there.

THE AMERICAN: Suzette? The pretty little thing that was here a moment Her child? And McPhail's?

PERE MATHURIN: Hers only, monsieur. When Suzette was born she would never tell the father's name. Except to me. "It is my baby," she would say, and that was all they could get from her. No one suspected McPhail. Other officers had paid her some little attention, so no one suspected the youthful, merry young fellow who was so kind and gentle. (There

is a pause .)

THE AMERICAN: And what happened

to her then?

And to him?

MESSENGER

THE

PERE MATHURIN: That, monsieur, _ was the question. any of us had from him since he left. Neither Margot, nor I-we, who had loved him. THE AMERICAN: Perhaps was killed, maybe.

Never a word have nor Mother Bonnot,

he was taken ill and died on the way home.

She PERE MATHURIN: We thought that, monsieur, for three long years. thinks so yet. Surely, we said, he would write. Every evening, for more than four years, she would come to the church here at the hour of the Angelus, and pray for him. That evening, five years ago, when your troops left Givry, Every there was a glorious May twilight, and the Angelus was ringing. evening, then, for four years, and more, when the Angelus rang, she would She would not believe that he was come to pray for the father of Suzette. Only I, in the entire village, know She does not believe so today. living. I found out the One day, some tourists came through Givry. differently. His father was a man of wealth, He was well and safe in America. truth. But here in our little village, Margot and he was attending a large university. was battling her shame alone, living it down by her sweetness, her courage, her faith. THE AMERICAN: You never told her

. . . the truth? To what purpose?

PERE MATHURIN: Oh no, monsieur. more happy.

Today

she is once

THE AMERICAN: Happy? PERE MATHURIN: Yes monsieur, months. THE AMERICAN: Married?

a happy, lovely bride

of less _ than three

She is married?

But McAnd so the tale ends happily. PERE MATHURIN: Yes, monsieur. I had thought him so cannot know how it hurt me, monsieur. Phail-you different. THE AMERICAN: She married

here?

owns the large PERE MATHURIN: Yes. A gentleman of our village-he a long time. for her marry to offered road-had the up just passed you chateau the Again and again she refused him. She was waiting for the other-for American. THE AMERICAN: But finally she . . . consented? Where will you find such PERE MATHURIN: Can you blame her, monsieur? Her husband adores her. Where will you find it so little deserved? fidelity? They are very She has learned to forget McPhail, and to love her husband. I cannot understand McPhail. happy, and he is so kind to little Suzette. . . So beautiful a character apparently, and then to prove so callous, so cowardly. THE AMERICAN: But did he ever know about the little one?

About Suzette?

PERE MATHURIN: No, I am afraid not. She would not let me trace him through your embassy. She insisted he would write if he could. She insisted he would come back if he could. I cannot understand why he never even wrote.

EPISODE

PRINTANIERE

THE AMERICAN: It does seem hard to excuse. And yet, monsieur, there are things we do not know. For example, it is possible that--

perhaps

( SuZETIE comes running in.) SUZETTE: Oh, Pere Matrin, Ma'am Bonnot says supper will be ready in a few minutes, and I can stay and eat with the Merican man, she says, and she is going to ask mama to come in after the Angelus. (Near the middle of the speech MARGOTappears an the street behind the wall, walking slowly towards the church. Jl s she reaches the open gate, the Angelus rings. She stops, makes the sign of the crass and stands in prayer while the bell rings. PERE MATHURIN and SUZETTEdo likewise. They do NOT see MARGOT. THE AMERICAN, however, does notice her, and stares at her intently and with evident emotion. She is a woman of about twenty-three years, very pretty, and attractively dressed. THE AMERICAN continues ta stare after the bell has stopped and MARGOTwalked off left.) PERE MATHURIN ( who has observed her as she passed from sight) : It is I cannot understand why he never wrote, Is she not beautiful? she, monsieur. why he never came back. Surely, in America, he can find none more lovely, none more loving. THE AMERICAN (after a long pause, his voice trembling with emotion, and taking an a tone which shows that his previous voice was assumed) : No, father, you are right. He could not, he could not. And now, too late, he has found it out.

( Taking off his glasses, he suddenly takes SUZETIE in his arms, presses her passionately ta him, holds her from him, kisses her again. Placing her upon the ground he seizes his stick and pack and hurries through the gate. Jl s he passes through, he stops and looks back affectionately at the old priest.) Do not tell her, father! ever! THE AMERICAN: Do not tell her . (Pause.) Or tell her, some day, that he did love her, and that he came back. Do not hate me utterly, Father And that he is punished sufficiently. Mathurin ...• (His voice chokes. He turns and hastens off in the opposite direction to that taken by MARGOT.) PERE MATHURIN (running ta the gate) : Sergeant McPhail ! Sergeant McPhail! (He stops at the gate, and leans heavily against the wall. SuzETIE approaches and pulls at his skirts. It is now almost dusk.) SUZETTE: Pere Matrin !

Pere Matrin !

PERE MATHURIN (turning and taking Suzette, my lovely, lovely, little Suzette. SUZETIE: Won't the Merican

( Tugs at his skirts.)

her in his arms):

man stay for supper? (CURTAIN)

My poor, little

High Summer and a Panama JEAN

MAcCARTY

"Well, Lovey, how goes it?" queried Mr. Cecil. "Marian and Frank broke up last night. They decided the marriage game is too trying on one's nerves. She's gone to Florida. She said she couldn't stand him any longer-he's so slow and behind the times," answered Mrs. Cecil. "Yes?" "Oh, and by the way, Mr. Cecil, Yvonne finally got Fred Grover. She has chased him consistently for two years now. The poor man was so harassed he had to give up. They were married early this morning." "Well, Lovey, you told me that at breakfast this morning, and I suppose you'll tell me again tomorrow morning. However, I'll make you the same answer that I did, as you seem to have forgotten it as usual. I'm sorry for Fred. I think Yvonne is a lucky woman to rake in his money. Money is all that matters a rap in this world anyway." "Oh, I never thought much of Yvonne, but she and I went to 'Le Convent du Sacre Coeur' together in Paris, and-and--" "Lovey, you've told me that innumerable times before. I don't see what I ever married you for. You bore me to death. These everlasting summers are getting too much for me. I haven't done anything interesting for years. i\1y serviette, Cora-by the way, Mrs. Cecil, when is Angela coming ?" "She is already here . She and Annabelle will be down in a minute," said Mrs. Cecil, who was seated at the head of the long dining table, with her sixteen-year-old son, Gilbert, on her left. At her husband's right sat their daughter, Olivia, who was about twelve. Mr. Cecil was an architect of about forty-five years. He was a tall blond of splendid physique, very good looking, with full consciousness of the fact. His grey suit was of the latest cut. In his buttonhole he sported a rose carnation. He was a well-educated man, and one who had traveled extensively. One never knew exactly how thorough and profound his knowledge went, for he was clever enough to appear to know a great deal about every subject which might be mentioned. Above everything else he clung to his youth, for he claimed to be of a family which never grew old. Annabelle Armistead was a sixteen-year-old girl, who was living with the Cecil family. She had invited her friend, Angela, to visit her for a week in July. Angela had arrived on the five-thirty train, and Anna-

HIGH

SUMMER

AND A PANAMA

belle had met her. They appeared in the dining room a few minutes after Mr. Cecil's question. "Here is our Angela!" announced Annabelle. Mrs. Cecil, Mr. Cecil, Olivia, Gilbert-this is Angela." "l\1y dear, how nice it is that you have come to liven us up. I hope you'll amuse my husband. He's really the most disagreeable man in the world. He was just telling me how he regrets marrying me. . . . Please sit down, my dear. We didn't wait dinner for you because Mr. Cecil insists on dining regularly." "Mrs. Cecil, I think you all are darling to let me come up to see you, for I know how hard it is to have visitors in the summer." "Angela, we're having a dance tonight, and I'm looking forward to your performance. Annabelle has told us what a capital dancer you are -the best I believe in your home town-am I right?" welcomed Mr. Cecil. "Oh! Annabelle was merely razzing you! Don't believe all she says." "Huh! Annabelle's all right," came in an eager voice from Gilbert. "You don't mean it, Gilbert," jeered his heartless sister. "All right, young ones." "I'm not a young one, Pa. I'm going to the 'U' next year, and I'm to be a scoutmaster next summer." "Well, I'm going to be married one of these fine days," announced Annabelle. "I believe in doing it young." "I'll tell you, Annabelle, Mrs. Cecil was a good looking girl when I fell for the marriage stunt. If she'd only had a decent chin she would have been a stunner. I was old enoungh to get married, but she was a mere infant." "Yes, Annabelle, and don't you ever be foolish enough to get married at eighteen. It doesn't pay. He was plenty old-oh yes," said Mrs. Cecil, who was then about thirty-six-quite young looking. She sat there looking charming in her dollish way. She was charming, too-at first-when one did not know her, and her artless stupidity made her appealing. But she was not entirely stupid, for at times she was amazingly clever, as a child often is. "Well, Angela, we want to hear your ideas on the subject, but let's get ready for the crowd now," suggested Mr. Cecil. Around eighty-thirty two very young girls came down and began to dance lithely on the shining floor of the hall. They were Angela and Annabelle. Angela wore a rose organdy, very plain, with tailored buttons of the organdy straight up the back, as the only trimming. Her

THE

MESSENGER

"triple A" slippers were black satin with large cut steel buckles. Her sleek brown hair was combed back from her forehead in a pompadour effect, thus emphasizing her clear cut features. Her skin gleamed white. She had a small disagreeable mouth, but her beautiful grey eyes sometimes made one overlook her mouth. Mr. Cecil leaned against a column in the hall, a cigarette in his mouth, watching the dancers with fixed attention. "It beats me how you all can follow each other's steps. Why don't you get mixed up? I never saw such intricacies. It looks like the oldfashioned 'grape vine.' " "Well, Grandfather, we aren't doing any grape vines. It's really quite simple. You simply listen to ·the jazz and your feet do the rest," instructed Angela. Presently a crowd of young men and girls came into dance. They were the usual assortment of "cakes" and "flappers.'' • One of the young men, Percival, tuned up his saxophone, which he blew relentlessy. Another amiable young soul volunteered many a squeak from his 'cello to the accompaniment of the piano. The rest danced. Angela received a breath-taking "rush." Mrs. Cecil danced with the young men. Mr. Cecil watched Angela enigmatically-fixedly. He lost sight of her in the crowd and began to feel very warm. "I wish I could dance with her just once," he murmured, as he stepped out onto the uncovered porch. "Why-ah-what's the matter?" Angela was leaning back in a wicker chair, her pale face outlined in the moonlight. "Just a beastly headache. Always have one after the train. It was so hot in there-and not a boy in there could dance. They're like most men, they think they are marvelous dancers and they haven't the first idea of rhythm. They think they do us women a great favor by asking us to dance with them. I'd just as soon ride a bucking broncho as try to dance with the majority of men.'' "My car is in front. I know of some very good tablets we can get for your head at a drug store a few blocks off.'' He led her down the steps; helped her into the car, and stepped on the gas eagerly. He cheerfully broke the speed limit. But what wouldn't he break for Angela? "These young whipper-snappers are so thoughtless, Angela. They think a girl can jazz all night.'' "So she can, Grandpa. I went to the week of finals at the University and danced 'till five every morning. But tonight-my this air feels good, and do you know, it's rather nice to be with you?" "Ah! Angela, you don't mean it!"

HIGH

SUMMER

AND A PANAMA

"Why of course, old dear, you already have one foot in the grave. Why shouldn't I enjoy an old fossil's company?" "Angela! You can't mean it? Your eyes are strangely brightwhy I believe you're mocking me. How is your head? "A little better. Perhaps if we go for a little ride I shan't need the tablets. You're so old, you know." About ten-thirty they came in. After the dance the family gathered in the library, where the chairs were covered in white linen to simulate coolness. Angela went and sat on the arm of Mrs. Cecil's chair. "Mrs. Cecil, I'm in love with your husband. He's divine. But my, he's an old one, isn't he?" "Yes, my dear, but he thinks he's young. He thinks you're a knockout. In fact, we all do, my dear. I think we're going to have a jolly week of it. Ce sera tres amusant." "Annabelle, come here!" whispered Gilbert ecstatically. "I think Angela's going to keep Pa in a fine humor, don't you?" "Yes, she's the stuff. She's got a hot line. Now we can have the car, and if he fusses she can fix things up." The next morning the victrola was playing at ten o'clock, and Angela and Annabelle were performing their intricacies. Angela was a past master in the art. Mr. Cecil left his work; came out of his office, and stood watching Angela with speculation in his gaze. But this morning Angela looked with grey, alluring eyes at Gilbert. She taught him new steps and made him dance until he liked it, and began to like her a little, too. Annabelle, fearing the potency of Angela, grew sick at heart, and withdrew to the pantry. Mrs. Cecil was there, and perceiving the pallor of Annabelle's face, made her drink a glass of milk. "It will never do for you to get sick, my dear, because we need you." "Do you?" came in mournful tones from Annabelle. "Isn't Angela a peach?" asked Mrs. Cecil. "She puts the pep in things." "Yes, she's all right." Percival came around with his saxophone. Angela soon engrossed all his attention. Gilbert and the happy Annabelle sped off in Pa's car. That evening one of the men whom Angela had met at the dance the evening before came to see her, bringing with him a young minister who had just returned from missionary work in South America. To Angela's met him while he great surprise, she found that she knew him-had was studying at the seminary. He had much to tell her. She listened enthusiastically. Mr. Cecil was smoking 'round one side of the porch.

THE

MESSENGER

Occasionally he strolled by the three who were s1ttmg in the front. After the visitors left, Mr. Cecil came 'round the corner of the porch. "Bon soir, Mademoiselle Angela, comment <;a va ?" "Ah! cet homme est tres bete, ce missionaire. I can't do much with French. I get along much better in our dear old slang." I "Well, you just have to put on airs when you speak French. observed the Frenchmen when I was over there, and they do nothing but put on side - most affected people on earth. By the way, you haven't paid any attention to me today." "Yes? But I've thought about you. I think of you a great deal. I'm deciding about you." The next day Mr. Cecil rose from the luncheon table, and said, "How about a run down to the beach?" "But Mr. Cecil, what about the plan you're working on for Mr. Du Bois? His wife 'phoned today and said you promised it last week, and-oh yes, that reminds me. Mrs. Granby asked me to tell you she doesn't like the arched doorway you put in her hall, and--" "Tut, tut, Lavey, what do I care about people and their plans this week? I'm off to the beach. Coming, Angela?" "You said it, Mr. Cecil," approved Angela. "Fine, Pa, I bid to drive part of the way and Annabelle 's going to sit in front," said Gilbert. "Oh! well, I'm a sport," giggled Mrs. Cecil. "Sure, Ma, you're the sport! Let's start right now," burst out Olivia. An hour and a half later the party was under way, Mr. Cecil at the wheel in a flapping panama cocked over one eye, and a palm beach suit. His daughter sat between him and his wife on the front seat. On the back seat Mr. Gilbert sat grinning with joy at being between the two girls. Each girl wore a tiny black star at the corner of her left eye. About five o'clock they stopped to mend a tire, and it was there that they made the discovery about Angela's eyes. Mr. Cecil was putting on his coat and looking at Angela very hard, when he exclaimed : "Why, Angela, that left eye of yours is smaller than the other!" "Surely, it's my winking eye!" "Aha! Now I've got you. There is seated all your cunning. It's what gives you that devilish, mirthful look." About ten o'clock Mr. Cecil turned the wheel over to his son, and retired to the rear seat with Angela and Annabelle. Thus they arrived

HIGH

SUMMER

AND A PANAMA

at their hotel at the beach. When they got out of the car, Mr. Cecil picked up his hat and found it broken. Angela had sat on it and mashed it! He treasured that hat always! Mrs. Cecil enjoyed herself extremely at the beach. She was an excellent swimmer, and so she and Gilbert swam far out. She called Mr. Cecil a walrus, and indeed, he did rather resemble one, floundering about, able to swim only on his back. But, as it chanced, Angela was a poor swimmer also, and the two paddled around near shore, always laughing and talking. "Ma," said Olivia the next night, "Angela is a fast worker. She's got Pa all right. She didn't dance a single dance at the Casino tonight. She and Pa had their palms read. Every time I went near them they talked in French." "My dear child, your daddy is having the time of his life. He's crazy about Angela, and so am I. I'm so glad Annabella asked her up." The next afternoon Mrs. Cecil went to sleep. The others went swimming. Angela decided not to go swimming, but she went with them. Gilbert, Annabelle and Olivia swam out as usual. After a time they looked toward shore and saw Pa, not in the water at all, but reclining on his elbow at Lady Angela's feet and looking into her eyes. "Ma," said Olivia, two hours later, "Pa didn't go swimming this afternoon." "And what, pray, did he do?" "He stayed with Angela and looked at her. He thinks she's very good looking. She keeps him in the most remarkably good humor." "The good-for-nothing creature! How dare she keep my husband from going swimming? I always knew she was a sly, vampish, sophisticated minx. She kept my husband from going swimming? She got her fortune told with him? She didn't dance on account of him. She talked in French so you couldn't understand her, did she? The wretch! She made him leave his work and watch her dance. "And oh, that villain! How dare he flirt in front of my eyes. I'll show him whether I'm so dense. I've put up with his insults many • a year. He mocks me and calls me stupid to my face. He married me for my youth and looks. He has done nothing but make me the butt of his jokes. He takes me to parties and plays and flirts with every girl there. He's educated. Yes, he's educated-reads books which bore me to death-high-brow stuff! "That slinking, dancing creature-I can't get over her. She fascinated him with that small winking eye, that ivory white face, that lithe

THE

MESSENGER

figure and those narrow feet. She's a-oh, it's outrageous! -she's got it. He, the vain, conceited, middle-aged flirt."

And youth

"Gee, you're hot, Ma! Oh, look! There's Angela-and she's got -who is that man? Mercy! it's that missionary who has followed her down here. She's had a letter from him every day and six specials." Sure enough Angela was strolling down the boardwalk in a French blue voile and blue lace straw hat, on the arm of the young missionary. They appeared greatly engrossed in each other. Olivia turned away from the window and looked at her mother. Mr. Cecil came in at that moment. "Mother, wouldn't it be a joke if Angela married a missionary?" "Yes," replied Mrs. Cecil. "It's very likely with her dancing all night, and vamping every man who comes along." "My dear Mrs. Cecil, she's just the kind that marries missionaries," said Mr. Cecil. For two more days they stayed at the beach. The young minister was at Angela's side from morning 'till night. He did not dance, and so she gradually gave it up. Mr. Cecil was at her beck and call, hanging on her every word. Mrs. Cecil grew steadily more jealous. The rest of the family were in a hilarious mood at having Pa amused. There was no tedium for anybody in these summer days. The following morning the party returned to the city. Angela was going to return to her home that afternoon. About six-thirty, fifteen minutes before the time for her departure, Mr. and Mrs. Cecil, Olivia, Gilbert and Annabelle sat in the library. "Lovey," began Mr. Cecil, "I have arranged to drive Angela to Silver Rapids and put her on the sleeper there for home. She will save time, and the poor child needs the air. I think we've been leading her too rapid a dance since she's been here. She is looking quite wan. I'll be back by twelve tonight." "When you get here you won't find me, Mr. Cecil. The audacity of it! Arrange it all with that creature, and then come and tell me before my children. I won't stand it. I'll get a divorce!" At that moment Angela appeared in a pure white dress and drooping white hat. "Won't you all felicitate me? I have just been married, and we are leaving for my home at eight o'clock. Soon we shall be leaving for South America where Page and I hope to bring happiness to many homes." She was gone, but Mr. Cecil had his panama.

A Price Is Paid ELINOR

PHYSIOC

Silver moonlight poured in between ruffled white curtains and spilled extravagantly over the counterpane. Chandler Haynes shivered with strange delight. It had been so long since moonlight had affected him against his will. He dared not move for fear of disturbing the quiet of a New England summer night. But even the comfort of a fourposter could not induce sleep to his eyes. He rose and crossed to the window. Cool, clear radiance pervaded the atmosphere. He felt excited to what? He did not know. Restlessly he moved from window to window. He stopped. Leaning against the gate was the figure of a woman. Utter dejection was in every line of her body. Dejection in this moonlight? Impulsively, he stepped to the window. The woman turned. It was his hostess. "Oh, this moonlight, Mrs. Buffum!" Haynes cried out. "Yes," said the woman as she turned slowly. thin' for moonlight."

"This place is some-

"It's a great place for lovers, I suppose." continue by some unbidden force.

Haynes was drawn to

She paused in her movement toward the house and then answered, "Yes, this place is somethin' for lovers, too." Without another word she entered the house. Haynes shuddered and drew the curtain. The encounter in such a fashion strangely affected him. Again he tried to sleep.

Chandler was an author with the soul of an optimistic poet, and the abilities of a business man, although he never suspected this as he dabbled in essays and sketches. Two nights before, he had finished his thirty-second short story with a sad ending and had rushed from his hotel to see Ben Werner, his friend and confidant, also a critic for The Weekly Literary Review. "Ben, I'm not optimistic. My nature is thoroughly cynical, but I must object to the fact that all the stories with happy endings are automatically decried by you and your colleagues as unreal and thereforepunk !" Chandler glared at his friend. "Gadzooks, my boy, why the fervor, the ardent look, the burning brow?" cried the critic with a smile. He was used to Chandler's out-

THE

MESSENGER

bursts. "I tell you, I'm not going to write another sad story-leaving off with a trail of asterisks and dim evil forebodings for the character's future. I am going to write a happy tale about real people who are really happy. There are such!" "Try and find them," scoffed Werner. wouldn't be artistic."

"Besides, a story like that

"Well, I am going to do it. I'll find the people, and make the work artistic! You'll have to admit it when I'm through!" "Why don't you study some friends of mine, Ross Buffum's parents? You know, he was my 'old lady' at the university. I went home with him once, and the very atmosphere of the place reeked with domestic bliss," said Ben Werner, looking at Haynes speculatively from behind horn-rimmed glasses. "They're the happiest set of people I've ever seen." And so, here was Chandler reflecting upon the realization of his hopes the morning after his arrival at the farm. The quiet air was disturbed only by the distant roar of falls and the tinkle of remote cowbells. He dismissed the affair of the night before with a smile. As he ruminated he was roused by a knock on his door. A ruddyfaced boy entered. "Good morning, Mr. Haynes. Mrs. Buffum said you'd better be gettin' up now. Cassie has to be at the bakin' afore long." "All right; tell Mrs. Buffum I'll be right down." "Yes, sir." "Oh, what's your name, kid?" "Lem Henderson. What's yours?" Chandler told him and the two soon became fast friends. Chandler took breakfast time as an opportunity to begin his study of the members of the Buffum household. There were four persons seated at the big table, which was covered with a red and white checked cloth. Mr. Buffum, perhaps sixty-five, with a weather-beaten, kindly face, sat opposite his wife, who seemed to be twenty years younger than She was still he. Instantly, Haynes was attracted to the woman. The author life. farm of years by hardened although striking looking, found himself watching the movements of her statuesque body as she went to and from the big, black stove. He noticed also the beauty and fire of her clear brown eyes. At first, he wondered at her easy manner and poise, but learned afterward that she had absorbed what of culture she had from her husband. She seemed to idolize him, tending him carefully as if he were almost an invalid.

A PRICE IS PAID

Ross Buffum, Senior, had been the catch of the village in his youth. He had been sought after because he was extraordinarily handsome, charming and witty. His main attraction, however, was his lovable disposition and his trustful nature. The last had been his ruin, for he allowed himself to fall desperately in love with a village belle who refused his offer of marriage. Thereupon, he had retired to his grandfather's farm to bachelorhood, which lasted until he met Sibyl Weaver, the beautiful daughter of a neighboring farmer. People had prophesied an unhappy denouement for the couple because of difference in age and experience, but no one had ever heard of any discord-only of happiness. Now, Mr. Buffum was fast declining into old age. He still prided himself on his appearance. He had gone to Paris on a freighter once, and this had added to his prestige on the matter of dress'. He retained a goatee and mustache "Imperial," which he kept waxed to perfection as a symbol of his gallant past. The conversation at breakfast soon centered about Haynes. He told them of a novel for which he was gathering material, and asked for advice from them. The old man's blue eyes shone. "I wish Ross was here. He'd know what to tell you!" cried he. "Sibyl, I guess Mr. Haynes and Ross'll get talkin' too high for us." "Ross'll be home soon now, Daddy," said Mrs. Buffum, approaching the table with the coffee pot. "You ought to tell Mr. Haynes what Ross's been doin'." "He's at Oxford, you know," began the old farmer almost gleefully. "He graduates this June!" "He must be a remarkable boy," put in Haynes. "He's real smart. Sibyl, bring Mr. Haynes his picture. We wanted to go to see him finish, but boat trips to Boston are my limit these days," he went on. Mrs. Buffum returned from her bed-room with the portrait of a dark-eyed young man in cap and gown. "That was taken when he graduated from Harvard, Mr. Haynes," Mrs. Buffum explained. "He's goin' to give us another picture when he gets back. He won the Rhodes scholarship, you know." As Haynes took the picture the back door opened and a man came in. "Good mornin', Martin. What's on your mind," said Mr. Buffum. "Sit down." "Got some news for you, Mr. Buffum, you'll like right well. It's a telegram." The man opened a leather pouch and handed him a piece of paper. "Ross'll be home in two days, Mrs. Buffum."

THE

MESSENGER

Haynes leaned back in his chair and tried to watch the scene without intruding on its sweet domestic bliss. It was then that he noticed Martin Lawrence. The overseer on the south farm, Haynes found when questioning Lem afterward, came to the house every day for orders. "He used to be Mr. Buffum's hired man long time ago," Lem said. "He went off to the city for a while, and when he came back with his wife Mr. Buffum made him overseer of the orchards." While Mr. and Mrs. Buffum rejoiced over, and reread the message, Haynes became fascinated by the farm hand, a huge man, broad-shouldered, stooped by hard labor, with enormous hands and feet, but with well-proportioned body. He went to the sink and drew a cup of water. As he turned, Haynes saw his full face for the first time. A strange sensation gripped Haynes-a sense of familiarity. Had he seen the man before? He smiled at the folly of his imagination and spoke to him. "You know young Mr. Buffum, I suppose, Mr. Lawrence?" "Oh, call me Martin-everybody does around here," said the man in deep, rich tones. "Yes, I guess I do! He's a fine boy, Mr. Haynes." Martin had a charming smile. His eyes were dark and attractive. Haynes guessed that he was about forty. "Ross and Martin, there, are like as two peas, Mr. Haynes," said the old man, hearing the conversation. "Always ridin', huntin' and fishin' together when Ross is at home." "Martin taught Ross to ride when he was a little fellow, didn't you, Martin?" Mrs. Buffum spoke for the first time. Her eyes were shining and her hands moving nervously. "Ross outdone me, long afore this, Mr. Haynes! He's the best rider anyways around here. The folks up Melton way that comes to the summer hotels is always askin' him to teach their young gels!" Martin moved toward the door and Mr. Buffum followed him. Breakfast was over. The three men and Lem, who was Mr. Buffum's nephew there on a visit, left the house together. Lem volunteered to show Chandler the chickens. Mr. Buffum laughed. "Lookin' fer material in th' hen yard?" He waved a piece of lumber and hammer. "Just let me finish with Martin, and I'll take you to see somethin' worth while!"

In a few minutes they started off for the barn. "Daddy, be careful. Don't you get over-heated," cried Mrs. Buffum from the back porch, frowning against the sun as she watched them go. There was a troubled expression in her eyes.

A PRICE IS PAID

"Now, Sibyl, don't you worry, either," :Mr. Buffum called back, adding as he turned to Chandler, "Not married, are you, Mr. Haynes? Oh, you must try it. Can't wish for a better woman than that there." "You seem to be very happy, Mr. Buffum." "Jerusalem! I guess so. Sibyl and I been married nigh onto twenty-seven year now, and a better wife never was. Why, she is always worryin' about me and frettin' over this and that. She stays at home all the time and I says to her, 'Sibyl, you ought to visit your friends up to Lyonsville,' but she just won't go for fear I'll have a spell while she's away. Yes," he chuckled meditatively, "it took me long enough to decide, but Sibyl was worth the struggle." They entered the stables and in response to a whistle from the old man, a sleek, black horse peered inquisitively from a stall window. "That's Ross' horse, Caliph. He sets a great store by him, don't he, old boy?" The horse nickered softly and pressed his nose against the farmer's shoulder. "Ross'll be home in two days, Caliph. You'll be rid as never afore." Then Mr. Buffum push~d back his Indian helmet which he always wore in the summer to protect his bald spot, and began to nail up a fallen board, whistling under his breath. Haynes, having duly admired the horse, took this as dismissal and he and Lem strolled out to the hen years. Lem was not adverse to pleasant conversation. He described Ross at length, told how Mr. Buffum looked when he had his spells, gave an exact account of Mrs. Buffum's actions when Martin had brought in Ross supposedly dead after a fall from Caliph, and wound up with Martin's thrilling ride to Melton for a doctor through a New England hail storm. That evening Haynes gazed out of his bed-room window and saw his host and hostess standing together in the sunset, the old man leaning on his wife's arm and talking rapturously about Ross, Haynes supposed. He caught sight of Haynes and waved to him, and Haynes saw in the woman's face as she turned the most radiant expression of love and tender devotion that he had ever seen. Calm tranquility seemed present in the very air of the place in the quiet sunset time, and Haynes almost in awe vowed to write a story which would silence Werner's doubts forever. The morning dawned which was to bring Ross' arrival. Cassie had cleaned the house from attic to cellar the day before and "nothing seemed left to do but tear things up so as to put them to right again,'' as Lem expressed it. Mr. Buffum pottered and poked about the barn

THE

MESSENGER

until Caliph refused to acknowledge his admonitions concerning future behavior with more than a snort. Mrs. Buffum spent hours of her usually full day deciding whether to put Ross' framed diploma over the mantel or over the piano. Martin had groomed Caliph within an inch of his life and had a brand new collection of fishing tackle. As Martin was leaving before lunch Mr. Buffum cried, "You'll be over tonight, Martin? Ross'll want to be seein' you." "Do come, Martin. Bring Mary and the children for supper if they can come." Mrs. Buffum's voice seemed harsh, strained to Haynes. He instinctively turned to Martin. His eyes were strange, almost agonized as he said simply, "Wa'al I'll see about Mary. But I'll come, and thank you." He did come. Ross arrived as he entered the back door. "Father! Mother!" cried the boy in tones so strangely familiar to Haynes that he started. Sibyl Buffum clutched her throat and half closed her eyes as if some unwelcome emotion had risen within her. Martin Lawrence paled beneath his tan, his lips trembled. But Ross Buffum, Senior, had Ross Buffum, Junior, in his arms in a wild embrace, and the air seemed to be filled with his joyful greetings. Ross had to see everything after the first raptures were over. Haynes, wished to be as unobtrusive as possible, watching them go to the barn to see Caliph. The old man led the way, with his wife by his side. Martin and Ross followed. "Alike as two peas," Haynes almost cried out as he remembered. The same sure stride, the same broad shoulders , Haynes stared but could not comprehend. He entered the house shaking as with an ague. About two o'clock that night Ross and his father and mother and Martin were still sitting in the moonlight talking. Haynes could hear their voices from his window, where he sat writing. The brilliance of the moon on the figures below fascinated him. Suddenly he realized that the boy and his father were alone, and, impelled by an unnamable force, he rose and crept down the stairs. Martin and Sibyl were in the kitchen talking. "Oh, I don't blame you, Martin. It was me, too, I guess," said the woman in the same harsh tone which had struck Haynes before. "Sibyl, I tell you it weren't our fault. It weren't fair for us to be tempted so. I tried to go away, but I couldn't, you know that." "Youth-youth that's what ruined us-moonlight and romance and love. But-" here the woman's voice broke. "What's the use of talkin' -I guess we know the price now-right enough .. God ...• It's awful."

A PRICE IS PAID

The man's muffied voice in response could not be heard. hell for you, too," she went on. "When he said "I know-it's you couldn't even touch "Father! Mother!' I knowed, Martin-and him." A sob racked the woman's frame. "I want to cry out, 'It's my son'-I want to shout it so's all the world can know-but for him." The man spoke wearily as if trial had snapped every vestige of his strength. "Every smile-every trustful look-oh, it's him I'm thinkin' of. He has dug the knife deeper in my heart by every kind word he's ever " . spoke. And, Ross-oh, my God-Martin Stillness of despair followed. The tick, tick of the clock and the croak of the frogs seemed endless. "Father, come out here and look at this moon," cried Ross in loud tones. "There isn't any moon like this in dear old England!" Haynes choked back an hysteria! laugh as he tore up his unfinished ode to happiness.

ENCHANTMENT MILDRED

ANDERSON

Three pine trees guard my silver night, Three sentinels of massive height; Three gleaming shadows in the light, Of stars and sky. They whisper songs unto the moon, Of caverns 'neath a pale lagoon, But misty dawn will come too soon, And magic die. Three pine trees lonely on a hill, Gaunt shadows, gloomy, trembling, still, That rumble when a crystal rill, Flows singing by. For in the mirror of the stream They see their hideous faces gleam Without the magic of a dream, For that is gone.

Buttons

Celluloid WARREN

A. McNEILL

(A PLAY IN ONE ACT) The scene is laid in the social hall of the "Stag Club." Back at Center is a door leading to the outside and a door leading to another room is at Left, while at Right there is a window. Down stage from ithe door at Left is a bar covered with posters advertising Orange Whistle, Welch's grape juice and other intoxicants. Bridge tables are set up at right and at left center. At the rise of the curtain a white aproned boy is standing behind the bar filling four large "Hire's" mugs with ithat unapproachable brand of root beer. At the table at Right are four men absorbed in a game of flinch. Their jaws work with sinister regularity as they chew huge wads of black-jack :gum and the wrappers are strewn about them on the floor. At two diagonally opposite corners of the table are incense burners and from 1time to time, one of the men fans the violet-scented smoke toward him and 1breathes ecstatically. At the right elbow of each player is a pile of wafers in assorted colorsthe men are betting on the game with these, occasionally however, eating an impro<Vised chip that seems especially desirable. Upon the men themsel<Ves may be seen marks of the degradation indicated by their surroundings. At the right and facing the bar sits WILLIE DRINKMORE wearing a neat ,appearing tuxedo, but with one end of his collar unfastened and his butterfly bow tie approximately under the ear turned toward the audience. His highly flushed cheeks serve to confirm the suspicion that he has had a mug of root beer too many and has ibeen losing wafers heavily. Opposite WILLIE sits RED CANNON, quite e<vidently lacking the culture of DRINKMORE. He wears unpressed trousers and a red sweater with a roll collar turned up around his neck. His curly hair is plastered down with some greasy concoction, but shows a tendency to break away and stand out like a crimson halo about his freckled face. With his back to the audience sits I. C. BETT, a wizzened little man, insignificant appearing in a dark suit. When he speaks it is with a high squeaking <Voice. Opposite him is ]ACK BLACK,a stout, quite pompous appearing young man whose self-satisfied air re<Vealsat once that the game is in his hands. JACK: Twelve, another hand, Red.

and thirteen

off my flinch pile, fourteen,

RED (handing him the cards): That's the last hand; up some more. Shuffle those extra cards, Willie.

fifteen-give

we'll have to make

no use to bother with those because JACK ( continuing to play) : One, two-it's that lets me play the three which is the last card on my flinch pile. All right, boys, cough up-I mean pass over-five wafers each, and don't try to slip out the green ones. (He fans the incense toward him and breathes with relish.) WILLIE (putting a green wafer in his mouth and sho<Vingthe remaining five toward Jack with a note of tragedy in his <Voiceas he speaks to the youth behind the bar) : Boy, bring me another roll of wafers! RED (snarlingly) : And hurry along those doggoned drinks, or I'm blessed if I don't slap you on the wrist. Boy (tearfully):

Yes, sir; coming right in a moment.

CELLULOID

BUTTONS

BETT: My shufile, isn't it, boys? (He takes the cards shoved toward him and for some time is busy dealing them out in piles of five which he gathers into a criss-cross stack in the center of the table.) JACK (unconsciously glancing around to see if anyone is within hearing distance of the group at the table) : I say, have you heard that one about the man who brought his son up on a stock farm without letting him see a girl until he was of age? Well, then he took him to the city and introduced him around, and when the son asked his father what a woman was, his father told him a wife was a useful thing to have around the farm and that he ought to get one. (The other men are looking bored.) So, the son got married and went back to live on the farm, and a week later when the father went back he asked the boy how everything was getting along, his son said "All right," and then his father asked about the wife. "Oh," said the boy, "I had some bad luck there. She got along very well for a couple of days and then when she went out to milk one morning, she fell and broke her ankle, so I had to shoot her!" ( Jack laughs uproarously at his joke, while the others, with the exception of Red, smile indulgently. Red is anxious to tell a story of his own.)

RED: That reminds me-} ACK (breaking in to explain the point of his story): You see, the boy had been brought up around stock, and when a horse or a cow breaks a leg, they shoot it and so--

RED (interrupting): } ACK

That

reminds--

(continuing) : So the boy thought

you should

do the same with

woman. RED ( talking ) This one is about-you } ACK

together

see there was a traveling

sales--

But the funny thing about this story, to me at least is--

BoY (breaking in on both of them): Drinks, gentlemen. into a respectful silence while he places the mugs before them. he says) : Your wafers, sir.

(They relapse To Drinkmore

(The four men drink, Bett with the relish of a man long accustomed to the tang of the bursting bubbles, slowly and lingeringly, Drinkmore with a desperate air, Jack triumphantly, recalling his recent success as a story teller and Red impatiently, since he wishes to tell his story.) BETT: Well, boys, let's get on with our game. How about putting up ten on this one? WILLIE: Make it twenty-I've in assent.) JACK:

(He distributes the cards.)

got to get back what I lost.

(The others nod

Play, Willie, you're first.

WILLIE (looking at his hand) : Isn't that Gahenna for you? Three elevens (He lays down one card and takes a drink, while Jack triand two tens! umphantly plays three ones and two fifteens, then playing rapidly off his flinch pile and winning the game.)

THE

MESSENGER

JACK: Sorry, but I'll have to collect twenty each.

(He gathers in the wafers and starts to shuffle the cards-Willie and wanders over to the other table at left center.) JACK: What's

gets up

the matter, Willie, losing your nerve?

WILLIE: No, I-er-ah-am

tired playing.

RED: Now, as I was saying a little while ago, there was a traveling

sales-

manBETT: Let's have a little music-come favorite ballad-you lead us, Jack.

on, boys, all together

on our old

JACK (swelling up with importance and proud of an opportunity to display his talents starts in a rough bass voice) : Oh, the Irishmen sing of an English Who lived many years ago--

king,

( The door swings open, disclosing a tall slender man with bristly hair, wandering eyes, thin lips and protruding jaw. He wears a black suit, rigidly form fitting, and a brilliant red bow tie around a bat-wing collar. The most startling feature of his attire, however, is a brightly checked cap which he does not take off as he strides into the room. The expression on his face must be seen to be appreciated.) LIGHTNING (in a strident commanding voice) : Stop right there!

(The singers stop in surprise and turn to stare at the intruder. The boy behind the bar gazes at the stranger with a vacant stare, at the same time absent-mindedly applying a bottle opener to a bottle of ginger ale. The cap flies off and the liquid is sprayed over the room, breaking up the picture. The men settle back slightly in their chairs and even Willie appears to come out of his daze enough to realize that something unusual is going on.) LIGHTNING: I've come here to clean out this hell hole. You're about to see the greatest change that ever hit this community and I'm the man who is going to cause that change. Some of you low down, lying, filthy, vulgar, root-beer soaked, wafer eating, flinch playing degenerates are going to have to sit up and take notice. This town has put up with you as long as it's going to-I've changed every place I've ever been yet, and this is not going to be any exception. Now if any of you are convinced that you're on the road to the jail or the poorhouse and are prepared to give up these filthy habits, come here and shake my hand and I'll give you a celluloid button with my picture on it. JACK: Who in Billy Sunday's

name are you?

BETT: We don't want any celluloid buttons.

(The boy behind the bar goes out at left.) LIGHTNING: I'm Lightning Louis O'Leary-originator of the law against eating salted peanuts on Sunday and of the statute forbidding men to shake hands with unmarried girls. And before I get through I'm going to put the rest of your rottenness out of business in the same way. (Turning on Bett):

CELLULOID

BUTTONS

Of course, you don't want a button, you long-nosed, lean, carnivorous hypocrite -it wouldn't last five minutes where you're going-what you want is an asbestos suit. I'm talking to men, not to you! RED: What a private club?

reason have you to come butting

in here like this?

This

LIGHTNING: Reason? Reason! A nice person you are to talk about reason! You haven't enough reasoning power to recognize a fool when you see one. RED (looking the intruder there.

over carefully):

Oh, yes, I have!

You're wrong

LIGHTNING: What right have you to say that I am wrong about anything? You, putting your little, insignificant, depraved, innocuous , hypothetical, parenthetical, enigmatical pinhead brain up against mine-where's my publicity agent ?-he's the man to tell you whom you are addressing.

(He looks back at the door by which he entered and his hearers follow his look apprhensively, fearing that he will be reinforced.) BETT: We were enjoying ourselves

until you came here .

Can LIGHTNING(swearing by the biggest thing he knows) : Oh, my vanity! a man sink so low? Instead of being ashamed of having a good time, you brag about it! Don't get me wrong now-I'm not telling you I want you to put up a long face and sanctimonious airs-I'm as much opposed to that as you are -I want you to be happy, but as for having a good time (there is horror in his alive! Have you no sense of right-no voice) and enjoying yourselves-man feeling of shame? RED: But why do you object to our playing sip of root beer?

flinch and taking an occasional

LIGHTNING: Is it necessary that you understand everything before you will pay attention to it? I say so. That should be enough without any need for my going into long-winded explanations for the benefit of a lot of pin heads who can't realize that I wouldn 't say those things were wrong unless I knew that they were. I believe everything that I say, without exception and including the adjectives. And if you don't believe, you're a weak-minded, loose-kneed, sa g -jawed, hollow-headed imbecile. Now, are you satisfied or are there more arguments you want me to answer? RED: But, I don't think you've answered

our argument

yet.

LIGHTNING: Whoever accused you of being able to think? If you were capable of anything like that, you would have agreed with me long ago instead of sitting there like a ninny arguing about it. JACK:

Boys, I've never heard such vulgarity

in my life . let's get this fellow

out of here. LIGHTNING (picking up a chair and brandishing it over his head) : If I heard correctly, one of you said I was vulgar. I want you to understand that

THE

MESSENGER

that is one thing I won't stand for. Any man that says that about me is a lowdown contemptible liar, and I stand here ready to back up that statement.

(The three men at the table rise and start toward him. As they hesitate for a moment before making the rush, Willie rises and totters unsteadily between them and Lightning .) WILLIE: Sh-no use, boys. This gemmen's right and I'm gonna get a button. My wife won't sew any on for me, an' I gotta get one somehow.

(The three other men draw back and Lightning puts down the chair he has been holding and sits on it with a self-satisfied air. At this the trio. acknowledge their defeat by falling into line with Jack leading, the others with hands on shoulders. They march to the door up center with an accentuated goose step, singing as they disappear): Oh, the Irishmen sing of an English king Who lived many years ago; And he ruled his land with an iron hand, But his mind was weak and low.

(As they are disappearing, the boy who had been serving behind the bar appears at the door at left and rushes to join them, falling in line just outside of the door and slamming it shut behind him, cutting off the sound of the remainder of the song.) You've got to LIGHTNING: Now, my good man, we'll take you in hand. ( Willie nods cut out this drinking and card playing and incense inhaling. sorrowfully but acquiesingly.) And-what's that in your mouth? WILLIE: Gum.

(Fumbling in his pocket.)

Have some?

LIGHTNING: Of all the abominable, vile, low-down, vicious, obscene habits, that is the worst! You've got to stop it, and that's certain. ( Willie nods again, Now, what do you expect to takes the gum out and throws it on the floor.) do with your time? WILLIE (hopefully):

I could take my wife to the moving pictures.

LIGHTNING: You still have an unreformed soul or you would not suggest such a thing. Not that there's anything wrong with the pictures themselves, but it's the people who make them-a bunch of low, vulgar, bribing, blackmailing criminals. And do you want to see them? WILLIE: We could go to the theater,

then.

LIGHTNING: That's worse. You go there and see a bunch of people pretending to be something they are not-there's nothing which teaches quite so much deceit. Why don't you stay at home and read-you have some books, I suppose? WILLIE: Yes, I have Jurgen and several other books by Cabell, and Thompson ' s Outline of Science and-LIGHTNING: Filth and ( Willie nods affirmatively.)

rubbish! I suppose you'd even read Darwin? That's just like you little bedraggled, befuddled,

CELLULOID

BUTTONS

empty-headed morons-believing a thing is all right merely because a crowd of pin-headed, rattle-brained college professors say so. I went to three colleges in the course of one year and at all of them they admitted they couldn 't teach me anything. I'll send you around a complete set of my lectures entitled, "Quiet Thoughts Devoid of Reason," and Dr. Straton's illuminating "Guide to Paris."

(During this speech the door at the rear has been quietly opened and a large, powerful man has entered. He now nods to Willie who-still appearing a bit dazed with the fumes of root beer in his head-has in his pretended abstraction been keeping an eye on the door . Willie seems to take this nod as a signal and speaks.) WILLIE: And when I don't want to read, my wife and I can dance together. LIGHTNING (springing to his feet with an awful cry) : Do you know what dancing is? I've never done it myself, so I know that it is-

(H ere he raises his arms o<t•erhis head in a wild gesture . The stranger behind him snaps a pair of handcuffs on his wrists and the torrent of words suddenly is checked. Lighting becomes quiet and subdued.) STRANGER:Thanks, Willie. here, as we suspected he would.

I thought you'd be able to hold him if he came And as you saw, the identifying trick worked.

WILLIE (fastening the loose end of his collar, straightening his tie and smoothing down his hair) : So he always raves like that when dancing is mentioned, does he? STRANGER:Yes, ever since he's been at the institution . It seems that it was one of the favorite themes of the man he had been listening to just before his mind gave way. He used to lecture to the other inmates about it until we had to put him in solitary. (CURTAIN)

Bull Market! w. E. s. By eleven o'clock that morning we had reason to believe that this would be a big day on Wall Street, but when noon came and sales already had reached two million, we knew that the long period of inactivity was at last over and that this would be the biggest day on the Exchange since the panic of 1921. For twelve months there had been a monotonous, discouraging lull in trading, broken only now and then by slight depressions and recoveries, due, perhaps, to the stirring of bear The great interests or the unloading of some frightened investor. Street had become like a still pond disturbed only now and then by a slight surface nibble of a fish as it broke the monotony and gave hope to tired fishermen. But now, with astonishing suddenness, the break had come, and in the cyclone all prices were being carried upward. During the noon lunch-hour the board-room of G. F. Harris & Co., Inc., had become packed with excited, happy customers. Small investors who had been sucked in a year ago by the entreaties of enthusiastic confidential salesmen and who months ago had given up hope of realizing even their original investment, and had ceased frequenting the room, now poured into the small office, stared wide-eyed at the board, clamored around the credit cage, noisily asking questions in happy bewilderment, or excitedly pulled on cigars in an effort to suppress their ecstasy. The room was thick with tobacco smoke, out of which came forth chatter and laughter incessant; not the smoke of depression that seems to hang heavily and oppressive, but smoke that contained castles, dreams-profit dreams. Over in a corner, surrounded by a group of anxious, nervous men, the ticker clattered fitfully, merrily; its narrow tape being fairly pulled through the glass dome in the frenzy of the readers. At the great board two jumping telegraphers were trying to keep up with the sales that were being rushed to them over the special wire. One gets a long list of Baltimore and Ohio sales and every eye watches the "BO" column as he transcribes the message into figures: "48-48 3 -48 5 -49-49 6 -SO!" Higher and higher the rails climb. Rock Island, long at 24, had begun to show activity and now was struggling to break through to 30 ! And leading. Oils were gushing, with Transcontinenal in three hours! There is many a slap on the back with a "Looks like a merry Christmas after all, eh Bill?" Yes, surely this Thankgiving week! The phone-room is agog with rejuvenated salesman. Phone orders are snapped through and every instrument is busy carrying the news to absent customers. Buy! BUY! BUY! is the cry. Buy while they are

BULL

climbing! Don't sell yet! make money, man !-they'll

MARKET

Hold on! Hold on! climb for a week!

39 You've just begun to

Messenger boys hasten in and out of the manager's office, which stout, gray, and immaculate individual lies back in his great mahogany chair pulling on a long black cigar, feet propped upon his desk, grinning contentedly at his pretty secretary. Even the credit cage has taken on new life. These passive men of accounts are jumping here and there with orders, shouting in uncontrollable fervor, entering fully into the spirit of the speculation which is denied them. Only the stoop-shouldered old cashier, methodical and slow, stands at his window, unaffected, a living Gibraltar of confidence. The board-boy sings out, "Cosden 48-48 3 -48 5 -49. See her rise!" Even U. S. Steel, the barometer of the board, is carried along on the horns of the wild bull, "94-94 2 -94 3 -94 6 -95 1 • • • 96 !" This brings forth a shout from the transported speculators. With "X" at par things would look much better. Someone calls out above the hubbub, "Buy me fifty Cosden at the market!" and a credit clerk jumps to the phone. One o'clock comes and many individuals reluctantly pull themselves back to their places of business, while less responsible ones linger on forgetful of every care but their own immediate interest. There is an attractive power-a hypnotism-about a stock broker's office during a bull market that cannot be equalled anywhere else.

THE MESSENGER RICHMOND

COLLEGE

Editor -in-Chief Assistant Editor H. G. KINCHELOE Assistant Editor JAMES H. GORDON Business Manager WELFORD TAYLOR Asst. Business Manager L. H. CASTER - - - - Staff Artist W.

SLAUGHTER

SHOCKLEY

WESTHAMPTON JEAN

MAcCARTY

ELINOR GRAY

PHYSIOC ROBINSON

MILDRED

COLLEGE

ANDERSON

- Editor-in-Chief - Assistant Editor Business Manager Asst. Business Manager

THE MESSENGER is published every month from November to June inclus .ive by the students oi The University oi Richmond. Contributions are welcomed from all members of the student body and irom the aiumni. Manuscripts not found availab le for publication will be returned. Subscription rates are Two Dollars per year; single copies Twenty-Five Cents. All business communications should be addressed to the Business Managers. (Entered

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CONTESTS

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IN PLAY-WRITING

The Drama League of America will conduct four national contests in play-writing this year. This will be of interest to many readers of THE MESSENGER, as this university has always responded with contestants among its ambitious literary students. The winning plays will be produced, while advance royalties of from $250 to $500 will be made to the successful authors, in addition to what will be derived from the receipts of production. The four contests are as follows:

1. HISTORICAL--,:-One-A ct. Only college students may compete. Themes must be incidents of American history, real or imaginary; treatment need not be historically accurate, but must be historically just. 2. LITTLE THEATRE-Experimental One-Act. Anyone may compete. Theme must be unusual in conception and in treatment. 3. BIBLICAL--,:-N on-Sectarian-Any Length. Anyone may compete. May be one-act, full length, or pageant in construction. Theme must be based on incidents of either Old or New Testament; treatment must accord with Biblical traditions .

EDITORIAL

4. ALL-AMERICAN-Full Length. Play to be full length m construction with any number of acts or scenes; any theme may be treated and in any manner . The treatment of any of the above contests may be in any manner: burlesque, farce, comedy, drama, melodrama, tragedy or mystery . The contest closes May 1, 1927. Any manuscrupt may be submitted to the Editor of THE MESSENGER,or Head of English Department who will co-operate with the author in seeing that it gets to the judges.

Students concerned with race relations in the United States will be interested in a contest being conducted by the Commission on Interracial Co-operation, Atlanta, Georgia, for which prizes aggregating $200 are offered for the best papers on the subject, "Justice in Race Relations," open to students of Southern colleges. Any phase of the subject may be treated, but preference will be given to practical discussions of prevalent conditions and attitudes, with suggestions for their improvement. Papers should not exceed 2,500 words in length and must be in the hands of the Commission on or before April 15, 1927. Further information and suggested reading list may be had from Mr. R. B. Eleazer, Educational Director, 409 Palmer Building, Atlanta, Georgia.

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Main and Eighth Streets

223 East Broad Street

KODAK FILMS DEVELOPED FREE When of Us and Prints Are Ordered MAIL

ORDERS

GIVEN

PROMPT

Purchased

ATTENTION

Fulton Brick Works Manufacturers

of BUILDING

MATERIAL

and

BUILDING CONTRACTORS Richmond

Virginia

Whittet & Shepperson 11-13-15 North

Eighth

Street,

Richmond, Va.

PRINTING COLLEGE

ANNUALS FRATERNITY

DANCE

PROGRAMS

LITERATURE

''COAL FROM SILOS" Quality Coal

: Screened Clean

: Personal

Massey & Wood IVOR

MASSEY

KENNETH

WOOD

Service

Chartered 1832

Virginia Fire and Marine Insurance Company ASSETS

$3,398,462.00

The Religious Herald Organ of Virginia Baptists

Subscription price $2.50. It stands in the old paths, but does not stand still; it also walks therein. Ninety-six years young.

REAL FLOWER SERVICE When you order flowers from this good Flower Shop you get the utmost in servic e that modern facilities and careful attention to details can produce. Mail or telephone orders receive the same attention that you would get if you came personally to the store .

Ratcliffe & Tanner, Inc. 519 E. GRACE STREET "WE GROW

Phone Mad. 6080-6081 THE

FLOWERS

SELL"

Stuart & Betts Incorporated

WHOLESALE

CONFECTIONERS 1313 East Main Street Phone

Madison

474

Boulevard 7680

2 blocks south of Floyd Ave. ON

THE

WAY

DOWN

TOWN

STOP

Dinty Moore's 3009 WESTHAMPTON

AVENUE

TO EAT SPECIAL

RATES

FRATERNITY

COLLEGE

LUNCHES,

LUNCHES

DELIVERED

BANQUETS, ANY

ETC.

TIME

"SAY IT WITH FLOWERS"

204

NORTH

5TH

TELEPHONE

ST.

FLOWERS EVERY

B. L. Naumann & Co. MAD.

FLORIST FOR

OPPOSITE

OCCASION

MILLER 5TH

OTTO B. NAUMANN,

ST,

21.5

S, RHOADS

ENTRANCE

REPRESENTATIVE

THE YOLKS OF FRESH EGGS Are used in Kroog's

(formerly

made flavor and golden coior. handle Kroog's

(formerly

9 East Grace Street

Abrams')

Cakes to give it that delicious home-

Demand the genuine of your dealer-if

Abrams')

he doesn't

Cakes, phone us.

Randolph 429e

New EnglandMutualLife InsuranceCo. WALTER W. BARROW, General Agent State-Planters RICHMOND

Bank Building

- VIRGINIA

Virginia Engraving Co., Inc. ARTISTS

PHOTO ENGRAVERS

101 Governor Street

DESIGNERS

•: • Phone: Randolph 318

RICHMOND,

VIRGINIA

The First Baptist Church Corner Broad and Twelfth Streets REV.

GEORGE

McDANIEL,

D . D ., PASTOR

CHURCH SERVICES: Preaching Sundays 11 :00 A. M. and 8 :00 P. M. Prayer Meeting Wednesday 8 :15 P. M. SUNDAY SCHOOL: Meets at 9 :30 A. M. Baraca, Westhampton and other organized Bible Classes.

B. Y. P . U .'S : Meet at 7 :00 P. M. Sundays. Fellowship Union meets in Baraca Room; Fidelity meets in Sunday School Auditorium; Loyalty meets in Church Parlor . Service meets in Primary Room.

EasternBaptistTheologicalSeminary Centrally located in the city of Philadelphia, 1812-1814 South Rittenhouse Square. TUITION AND ROOM RENT FREE. Opportunities for self-help. Student Loan Fund available. Great libraries and museums in the city available to students.

High Educational Standards. Strong and Scholarly Faculty. Four Schools: THEOLOGY, including the courses of study usually offered in theological seminaries. MISSIONS. RELIGIOUS EDUCATION. RELIGIOUS MUSIC. Ten minutes from University of Pennsylvania. Session opens September 21, 1926. Write for new bulletin.

CHARLES T. BALL, President.

Medical College of Virginia State Supported Institution-Co-Educational

mm Medicine

Dentistry Nursing

Pharmacy

W. T. SANGER, Ph. D., President ~

Well-equipped Laboratories under the direction of full-time teachers. The Memorial Hospital, Dooley Hospital, St. Philip Hospital, 424 beds, and large clinic for ambulant sick, owned and operated by the college, offer every facility for thorough Clinical Teaching in medicine and dentistry, for dispensing in pharmacy and practical experience in nursing. Additional Clinical Facilities are provided through other institutions of the City of Richmond. ~

REQUIREMENTS FOR ADMISSION School of Medicine: Two years of college work including Biology, Physics, Chemistry and English. School of Dentistry: One year of college work. School of Pharmacy: Four years of high school work. School of Nursing: Four years of high school work. ~

For Catalogues

and Other

Information

ADDRESS

J. R. McCAULEY, Secretary Richmond, Va.

.·comfortable Convenient

Safe

THE BOYS' MEETING PLACE, AS WELL AS TBE OLD GRADS RICHMOND HO~E.

BROAD STREET AT EIGHTH