Volume LII ·
APRIL, 1927
Number 6
University of Richmond Students Cordially Invited to
ST. PAUL'S (NINTH
REV.
AND
GRACE
STREETS-OPPOSITE
BEVERLEY
D. TUCKER,
SUNDAY
CAPITOL
JR.,
SQUABE)
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 Westminster 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
YOUR
CHURCH
♦
HOME
• WHILE
LIVING
IN
RICHMOND
LONDON
CHARACTER MADE
CLOTHES
BY
C. Breitstein, the Tailor SNAPPY CLOTHES FOR THE COLLEGE CHAP Prices Arranged from $35 to $50 SPECIAL
DISCOUNTS
TO STUDENTS
708 East Main Street
Fire Insurance Should Be Bought FROM EXPERIENCED We have represented
AGENTS
the Liverpool & London and
Globe Insurance Co., Ltd., for more than fifty years.
-CONSULT
US-
The Davenport Insurance Corp. 1113 EAST MAIN STREET RICHMOND,
........
VIRGINIA
UNIVERSITYOF RICHMOND INCLUDES
1. Richmond College, a College of Liberal Arts for Men. 2. Westhampton College, a College of Liberal Arts for \Vomen. 3. The T. C. Williams School of Law, a Professional School of Law, offering the Degree of LL. B. 4.
The Summer School. W. L. Prince, M. A., Director. Richmond College for Men W. L. PRINCE,
M. A., DEAN
Richmond College for Men is an old and well-endowed College of Liberal Arts, which is recognized everywhere as a Standard American College. Its degrees are accepted at face value in the great graduate and technical schools of America. Its alumni are so widely scattered through the nation that the new graduate immediately joins a large and friendly group of men holding positions of power and influence. The College occupies modern and well-equipped buildings, on a beautiful campus of 150 acres in the western suburbs of Richmond.
Westhampton College MAY LANSFIELD
KELLER,
PH.
D.,
DEAN
Westhampton College for Women, co-ordinate with Richmond College for Men, is housed in handsome buildings on a campus of 140 acres, separated from the Richmond College campus by a beautiful lake of about nine acres. All degrees are given by the University of Richmond, and those conferred on women are, in all respects, equivalent to those conferred on men. While the two institutions are co-ordinate, they are not co-educational.
The T. C. Williams School of Law J.
H. BARNETT,
JR.,
LL.
B., SECRETARY
Three years required for degree of LL. B. in the Morning Division, four years in the Evening Division. Strong faculty of ten professors. Large Library. Moderate Fees. Open to both Men and VJomen. Students who so desire can work their way. For catalogue, booklet, or views, or other information concerning entrance into any College, address the Dean or Secretary.
F. W. BOATWRIGHT
- -
- President
THE
~
MESSENGER
Students' Literary Monthly since 1876 l!DITORIAL Dl!PARTMl!NT W.
E. SLAUGHTER •
]HAN MAcCARTY
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
• Richmond Westhampton
College College
BUSINESS DEPARTMl!NT JAMES
H. GORDON
• Richmond Westhampton
GRAY ROBINSON
Vol. LII
College College
1927
APRIL,
No. 6
CONTENTS QUEST
(Poem)
4
Mildred Anderson A SOLDIER OF FRANCE (First Prize Short Story) 0. A. Lundin , Jr. WHEN NOTHING Is LEFT (Poem) Mok Poon Kant THE JUMPING-OFF PLACE (Sketch) Helen Covey A NIGHT IN THE WooDs (Poem) J. W. Kincheloe, Jr . THE CODE OF YOUTH (Essay) J. M. Trimmer LH DouTE (Poem) A . Femme BY ORDER OF THE DEVIL (Second Prize Short Story ) Francis Franklin ODELETTE (Translation) Louise Morton ACCEPTANCE (Short Story) Margaret Haley THE PROFESSOR (Sketch) Jean MacCarty A SONG OF ROMANY (Poem) Louise Gayle BooKs (Essay) H . G . Kincheloe BOOK
REVIEW EDITORIAL
10 12
13 17
18
25
26 32 35 36
S.S.
39
PEN
$2.00 THE COLLEGE YEAR
9
37
•
M. THE
5
35 CENTS
A Copy
THE MESSENGER is published every month from November to June in• elusive by the students of the University of Richmond in Virginia. Contributions are welcomed from all members of the student body and from the alumni. Manuscripts not found available for publication will be returned. All business communications should be addressed to the Business Managers, Entered a• second-class matter at the postoffice at the University of RichVirginia. Copyright, 1926, by W. E . Slaughter. ml.~
l:ond,
QUEST I hope that Life will never take from me The memory of a startling crimson dawn; Cobwebs the fairies left one night Upon the lawn. I want from Life a rosary of stars Wrapped in a fragrant dewy mist; Pale beauty of a flower-drenched garden wall The moon has kissed. I pray thee, Life, grant me the power to find More beauty as the hours go by, And when the winds no longer sing to me Then let me die. -Mildred Anderson.
A SOLDIER
OF FRANCE
( Given first place in Short Story Contest)
o. A. LUNDIN,
JR.
The tiny "Fort by the Water Hole" sweltered in the rays of the noon-day African sun. The fronds of the few scattered palm trees hung motionless and withered in the hot, still air, and with the exception of the lone sentry slowly pacing the walls, there was not a single stir of life. For many months the little "Fort by the Water Hole" had been undisturbed by the Arabs. Ali-ben-Saada had remained hidden from the watchful eyes of the Foreign Legion. For many months the lone sentry had paced the walls with nothing to break the monotony of the arid view but an occasional caravan and the monthly provision train. It seemed to the lone sentry that tl:ie small garrison had been left to rot in the desert.
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
Monsieur le Capitaine Raoul de Charbon shuffled the cards with languid, lazy fingers. "Jacques," he said, across the table, "this life is killing me. The nearest thing to hell is the desert." Jacques carefully knocked the ash from his cigarette. "I have of ten wondered, Monsieur le Capitaine," he said, "why a man of your nerve and daring should have been stationed in this heart-breaking place." Monsieur le Capitaine smiled at his companion. "It all comes, my friend, of having a reputation as a swordsman, and attempting to live up to that reputation. An unlucky duel will often force a man to choose between the Foreign Legion and court martial. I chose the Foreign Legion." He stopped and gazed thoughtfully through the window. "I have often wondered," he said, "if PoU<;ainwere not right. I questioned his bravery; he called me a coward and I struck him. We fought. I do not know whether he recovered or not. . . . I don't care. . . . But . . ." He paused again. Finally he jumped to his feet. "If I ever meet PoU<;ainagair:i, he will have to prove he is a braver man than I." ·
6
THE
MESSENGER
At this moment they heard the sentry call out. Monsieur le Capitaine ran up to the parapet. The sentry pointed to the north. "That looks to me like a man on foot," he said. Raoul de Charbon examined the tiny speck through a powerful glass. "It is a man!" he said, "a man in a French uniform. Look! He has fallen. Now he is up. He has fallen again! Ho! Jacques, take five men and go to the help of that poor fellow."
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
That afternoon the stranger was brought before Monsieur le Capitaine. De Charbon was seated at a table with his head bent over some papers. When he looked up, the stranger started, and dropped his eyes. "Who are you?" asked the captain. The man's eyes moved uneasily from one face to another. "I am a soldier of France," he said finally. "I know," returned the captain, somewhat impatiently, "but what is your name, and how came you in this plight?" "I am simply a soldier of France, who got lost in the desert." Raoul de Charbon examined the bearded face closely. "Queer how you got lost. What were you doing out alone?" The stranger shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "I don't know," he answered. "I strayed away night before last, got my directions mixed, and was unable to find my way back." "The fellow is lying," thought Monsieur le Capitaine, "he is a deserter. Well, he won't be fool enough to try and leave here until I can signal Ste. Jeanne and learn who he is."
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
The heliograph blinked across the miles of desert sands. There was something erratic in the signals, something that riveted the lone sentry's attention. He called to the operator of the little "Fort by the Water Hole" to answer. The flashes stopped, and then started again, more erratic than before. With them came a very faint rumble, a rumble like distant thunder. It was the rumble of guns. The sun
A SOLDIER
7
OF FRANCE
was going down and the flashes were getting weaker and weaker. The lone sentry spelled out the message : "Ali-ben-Saada . . . mille hommes . . . au secours ! Au . . . ." The sun disappeared below the horizon; the flashes stopped abruptly.
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
Monsieur le Capitaine Raoul de Charbon chewed the ends of his mustaches nervously. "A thousand men! We cannot hope to beat them off, neither can we escape. Ste. Jeanne is our only hope, and the Arabs have finished them by now. What do you men say?" "We will fight to the last! There is no sting in death when one dies fighting." Admiration shone in the captain's eyes. "Ah, my brave comrades," he said, "you are true soldiers of France. But," he added, "there is no need for brave men to die if they can live. There is no disgrace in forty men hiding from a thousand." "Ah, no," said one, "but where can we hide?" "We might conceal ourselves in the cellar of the ruins. They are nearly covered with sand, and give no idea as to the space beneath them." He gazed at the small mound that marked the location of the old fort, destroyed years before. "We must examine it." The captain left the room and, followed by some of his men, crossed over to where the ruins lay. "We could all get in there," he said, "but there is no way to conceal the opening. The Arabs will be sure to examine anything suspicious when they find the fort deserted." The stranger, the "soldier of France," stepped forward. "One man must stay behind," he said, "cover the opening with boards, and throw sand over the boards. In that way you may escape." The men gave a low cheer at these words. "But," said Monsieur le Capitaine, "the one who stays behind-" "Must hide where he can," the stranger concluded. "Monsieur, you must hurry. Ali-ben-Saada will be here any minute. Go, hide in the cellar. I will conceal the opening." "No," replied de Charbon, "I am captain here. I must close up the hole."
8
THE
MESSENGER
"Captain," said the stranger, earnestly, "you don't understand. You may escape. You can be of service to our country. As for me, I am a deserter. I shall be shot if I return. Better that I die fighting than before a firing squad." The captain was tempted. He knew that he should remain, but he loved life, and in the cellar there was a chance. "Come, monsieur," urged the stranger, "you have no time to lose." Raoul de Charbon hesitated. Was he doing an honorable thing, fleeing from his duty? True, the man was a self-confessed deserter, doomed to court martial and death, but . . . "I have every chance to escape," continued the stranger. Then the captain yielded. "What is your name?" he asked. "Jean Pom;ain, soldier of France."
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
The forty men were crouched in the dark, close cellar of the old fort. The hole had been carefully covered; not a ray of light entered. Suddenly Monsieur le Capitaine shuddered. PoU<;ainwas his old enemy; what if he were to betray them to the Arabs? He started to push aside the boards, when he heard the sound of a shot. There were several more shots, _a loud explosion, and silence.
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
It seemed like an age when they heard a noise at the opening. The air was becoming foul; they could not stand it much longer. A hand pushed aside some of the rubble over the entrance. The moon had just risen, and by its light, Monsieur le Capitaine recognized the bearded face of Pom;ain. The lips moved. "They have gone," said PoU<_;ain,as he died. Monsieur le Capitaine crossed himself. "He was a brave man," he said, "a true soldier of France."
WHEN NOTHING IS LEFT Whenever I met you, I met you with a lute in your hands. Your arms were never free to embrace me, whenever I met you. Whenever I met you, I met you with a flute on your lips. You never left them free to kiss me, whenever I met you. Now you have finished your songs. Your arms are free to embrace your lips to kiss. But how short the time! for you must go.
me,
You may go, Far-to-seek, you may go without asking my leave. I say no word of farewell, lest my voice should echo in your heart in endless streams of sorrow. I hold my tears for fear they ripple in your blood in deathless waves of pain. You may go, Far-to-seek, you may go without asking my leave.
If there be footfalls following the dust from your ankles at every step, it is the beating of my heart answering the throbbing of your breast. Quiet yourself, Far-to-seek, and go your way. If there be a hand, constantly turning your head backward, it is the yearning of my eyes following your dying figure. Look your look, Far-to-seek, turn not your head back to me. If your steps are languid with a weight of what you do not know, 1t 1s, I tell you, a drop of tear I shed long ago on your garment that makes your steps languid. Put off the garment, Far-to-seek. Do not linger on the way. Do you feel that the sky is overcast with dark clouds? Be still on. It is but the drooping of my brows. Be still on, Far-to-seek, be still on. Those clouds will not overtake you. If there be a cracked voice ceaselessly humming at your ears when you arrive at The Spot, it is a poet's last song sung one autumn morning to the faded flowers and the flown-away birds. Set it to the north wind, and think not of me, Far-to-seek, think not of me.
-Mok
Poon Kant.
THE JUMPING-OFF HELEN
PLACE
COVEY
The straight gray road lay smoothly up the hill, like a stretched ribbon. Trees, green -black against the fading sunset, marched beside the road in thick impenetrable ranks up the hill to the summit; then they came to an abrupt halt. So did the road. For that was the Jumping-Off Place. Those trees at the top of the hill stood startled against the mother-of-pearl sky, and with the sharp edge of the ended road framed a piece of sheer atmosphere in a strange three-sided frame that had no fourth limit this side of infinity. As I crept stealthily up the hill, I was sure at last of having reached the Jumping-Off Place. Often before I had expected to, but at the top of every hill I had found a descent on the other side. But I had continued the search. This time when I reached the summit, I knew that my quest was ended. It was as if some fabulous genie had cut away the rest of the world that should have been beyond that hill crest and had stretched a thin opaque film of blue across the resultant void. For at the top of the hill the world ended, and there was nothing beyond but the silken curtain of sky. I had been born knowing that there was a Jumping-Off Place somewhere. From infancy, I think, I had been seeking it. Whenever I had come upon a hill high enough to conceal any landscape on its other side, I had examined it secretly with great care, only to be disappointed. Why I should have experienced disappointment I never knew, except that I had retained with the knowledge of it, smuggled into this world with me, the realization that its discovery was wondrously desirable. Now I had found it. I stood within three feet of the end of things, and the thin partition that hid whatever was beyond. I knew that now I hoped to solve some fundamental problems: where Li£ e came from, and why it came, and how long ago; and where Life goes when Death comes, and whether the personality is immortal or is really lost forever when the human heart stands still. I would find what Truth is, Right and Wrong. And I hoped to learn why God makes men hate, fight, and die, and women suffer. Then I would know the language spirits talk, and would meet them afterwards in dark silent places and hold converse with them with lips that were chilled with fear. I would understand the schedule of the comets, and the secret of the strange black patches that astronomers call "holes in the sky."
THE
J U MPING-OFF
PLACE
11
I knew that at the Jumping-Off Place lay the key to the universe and other universes yet undreamed of. Now, if I plunged my hand into that veil of sky, that fluttering delicate fabric, I would have before me-everything. It was strange that this supreme knowledge was protected from the world I lived in by only an opaque cob-web. Why hadn't someone before me torn it aside and merged the two worlds of the Here and the Beyond? If people had tried, what had happened to them? Had thought-had they been annihilated , or immortalized, or-horrible they been disappointed? This last thought ran like fire through my brain. Had they looked, and found nothing? If I, too , pierced into the Beyond seeking the plan of the universe, would I find only that there was no plan? Madly I scrutinized the clear blue curtain of sky, and saw nothing through it. Was there nothing ? When I stopped to think, I suf fered from mental vertigo and knew that I risked insanity. A mortal should never have aspired to the essence of knowledge that I craved, for human brains were not constructed with the capacity to handle it. But still I desired to learn if there was Knowledge beyond the veil, or only blankness; I had to know, for my mind cracked with conjecturing. But if I found that there was nothing to know in the Beyond, or that there was no Beyond-that way lay chaos. I stretched out my hand and closed my eyes. My finger tips touched the fabric of the sky, smooth and supple and strong, like superlative China silk. It alone concealed my answer. . . . I snatched back my hand and stumbled blindly down the hill, screaming. I knew that the human mind is cowardly. It fears to know when certainty may mean the upheaval and annihilation of all that the puny intellect in its ignorance clings to. It prefers to suffer in agonies of uncertainty . I had not dared to look beyond the curtain of sky. As I ran crazily down the hill, I began to realize what fate had come to whoever else had found the Jumping-Off Place. . . .
A NIGHT IN THE WOODS Smouldering coals of the fire burn low And glimmer and crackle with flickering glow, But, fitfully flaring, they cast here and there Queer leaping shadows which dart through the air, And play among trees that are towering nearTo hide in their darkness and then disappear. Warm zephyrs of breezes scarce ripple the sheen Of the placid lake waters, so calm and serene, Which like a great mirror reflect in their green The starry night's vastness-a wonderful scene! And soft as a whisper the leave5 of the trees Converse high above with the murmuring breeze. From out on the lake near the lilies and logs Come the strains of a chorus of bellowing frogs, While far in the distance there sounds above all The weird, creepy strain of a Whip-poor-will's call; And the Katydids singing in branches near-by Seem never to halt in their monody cry. A velvety moth flits about near the fire"Will Night and her choruses never retire?" Says the camper aloud as he rouses his mind From a reverie deep which the fire had designed, And crawls in his tent 'neath the sheltering treesTo be lulled into sleep by the murmuring breeze. And sleeping, he crosses the threshold of dreams, Then wanders along toward the forests and streams Of a land far-away, where the fishing is good, By a silvery stream in a beautiful wood,While Night with her myriad weird-sounding cries O'ershadows a fire that sputters and dies.
-J.
W. Kincheloe, Jr.
THE CODE OF YOUTH J.M. TRIMMER The so-called moral breakdown and moral revolt of our younger generation is a problem perplexing and shocking to most of us today. Youth has seemingly renounced allegiance to the taboos and f et ishes of his parents, has thrown off the shackles of tradition and custom and has emancipated himself into a freedom never before dreamed of. The last few years have been filled with the inglorious deeds of our juveniles, whereas the modern college campuses are branded as reeking in sin, abounding in inebriacy and begetting infidelity and atheism . The more conservative and less tolerant of our Puritanical fathers have indicated their solemn belief that the younger generation is plunging headlong into eternal perdition , and after protesting in vain for many months have at last reconciled themselves to this situation as a "fait accompli," conceiving our youth to be irreparably hopeless. And so they are trying to resolve into a harmonious relationship their own militant ideals with the seeming laxity and radical nature of those of their sons and daughters. College men and girls-flappers, so to speak-seem to bear the brunt of the denunciation, but we hope to present a somewhat different picture of the situation, trusting that we shall be able to exonerate the younger generation and make them safe for democracy. The flapper, with her brazenness, bare knees and cigarettes, has established petting as an adamantine institution above reproach. She damns things to hell with a poise and grace becoming a sailor, and tells a risque story as piquantly as her brother could hope to do. In her associations with her admirers she insists upon frankness, and discusses with ease and nonchalant indifference sex, salacious literature and corn liquor. And in a naive indisposition, she possibly condescends to believe in the Omnipotent, but church is really so boring and religion merely a relative term. Bridge, dancing and weekending-these constitute the essentials of life. The college lad co-operates with her in this process of effecting the erudition of the race, regarding his hip flask as the "sine qua non" of a fastidious intelligent Bohemian. He is a natural born iconoclast, and revels in reading Mercury and Col.lege Humor. Perhaps he is a Socialist, but it is certain that he agrees with Mencken, that American institution heaven bent for hell, that America is full of piety, stupidity and tin-pot morality. He delights in exposing the ignorance of the morons in \Vashington and authoritatively denounces pro-
14
THE
MESSENGER
hibition as a damnable outrage. He exults in telling of his love for liquor, how much he can hold, and what a "hell of a good time" he had the last time he was on a big drunk. If he is a sophomore, he probably goes to church to see the girls and pass away the time; if a junior, he prides himself on his cynicism and professes belief in evolution and the inheritance of acquired characteristics; and when he finally becomes a senior, he must admit a tendency to infidelity, in order to prove that intelligence dispels all this blah about religion, and also he must confess an inclination toward the doctrine of free love. His greatest intellectual triumph consists in authoritatively characterizing Mencken as the "castigator of flatulence and superficiality in American life and letters," before a group of awe-inspired freshmen who whisper among themselves that he is a fearless thinker and a radical. But despite these seeming disparaging and discouraging features of modern youth, the more tolerant of us agree with Thomas A. Edison, that eminent authority on everything, that all this vicious criticism of our juniors is unjust, and that the morals of the younger generation today are better than those of preceding younger generations. He is glad of the unrest of our youth, and interprets this as an indication of constructive potentialities latent in the minds and bodies of our boys and girls. He admits that young people are not what they used to be and insists that he is glad of it. The most unmerciful critics of our young folks malign them for their lack of a code or suitable criteria to lend an essence of consistency to their conduct. They protest that sin is sin and that the moral law must be the same for all, for conscience is an universal and infallible guide. And since youth does not conform to those accepted and authoritatively recognized laws and codes regulating conduct, they insist that he is promiscuous and indiscriminate. But in defense we maintain that youth is discriminate-that he really possesses criteria by which to weigh and determine his conduct. Some declare that our younger generation is Epicurean-that it attempts to forget defeat, difficulty, and perhaps melancholy in the arms of pleasure. They refuse to concede that their juniors have even the slightest concept of what is good or bad, but that their actions are precipitated by a primordial urge whose sole criterion is "pleasure giving." However, again, we who are of this younger generation contend that we do have a code, that we do weigh our actions, and that we are not merely vacillating, professing however to believe our standards of action essentially different from those of our parents and those established by tradition.
THE
CODE OF YOUTH
15
Our progenitors, in their strict adherence to the religious significance of morals classified all action as either good or bad. Our Sunday school teachers taught us of good kings and bad kings and used only these two adjectives to describe practically all Biblical characters. Our parents recommended this type of conduct as good, and condemned that as bad, and in their loving way admonished us to "cleave to that which is good," and forbade our having contact with the bad. But concomitantly with his imbibing of all manner of new concepts in his emancipation, youth began to realize that the terms "good" and "bad" were relative terms and not at all impressive as criteria for conduct. So with his daring adventurous spirit, he began to experiment to see what he could get by with and so began to think in terms of prudent or imprudent action. But there was too much of an uncertainty attached to this method of determining conduct, and in reality youth was much too serious for such standards to endure for long. And so again he changed his notion of things, and this time thought of action as clever or dumb. To classify an act as intelligent or clever justified its existence, but to brand it as dumb was equivalent to denouncing it with scathing invectives. However, the end was not yet. Youth, in reality altruistic and idealistic, began to judge with the almost divine criteria of beauty or ugliness. And so today, according to an eminent authority upon the question of "youth," our young people react to every thing by these standards. This fact in itself is most commendable, for beauty is to most of us synonymous with divinity, and to adhere closely to such a determining factor of conduct would almost assure us a tranquil, blissful existence, were it not for a paradox which exists in this connection. For notwithstanding the virtue accruing to youth in this effort to find the most beautiful in life, it seems that youth is laboring under an illusion and that he possesses a perverted sense of what constitutes beauty. For example, youth seems to regard hard drinking as beautiful, and the high school and college lads delight in relating their drunken experiences. To them an intoxicated individual is really fascinating and most entertaining-a defiant, fearless personality, really beautiful. And some of our most persistent teetotalers candidly admit that a drunken man is indeed charming and that he does the "cutest" things. Then, it seems to be true that youth to a degree adheres to the philosophy and psychology of the behavorists in that he regards every
16
THE
MESSENGER
act and all conduct the result of the so-called "complex." These complexes are supposed to be the result of heredity, environment and association and precipitate urges which should not be thwarted if one aspires to the personality beautiful. In this respect we find the influence of Nietzsche, who insisted that human emotions were divine, and that the sati;;fying of them was beautiful, the suppression of them ugly. This philosophy consoles many of our younger generation who find themselves satiated with urges not at all in harmony with our modern ethical concepts. However, they insist that their acts are beautiful and thus above reproach. Finally, youth has come to regard the physical as the essence of beauty, and has greatly accentuated his appreciation of the physical to the depreciation of the spiritual. Perhaps in this respect he is reverting to the ancient Greeks and Romans, but yet youth is not arbitrary and promiscuous, but consistently pursues the beautiful in life. And so we must accord him the proper praise and laudation for his idealism and adherence to code. In conclusion, let us insist that we do not off er any remedy for the situation, for some six thousand have already been proposed with negligible success. But we do wish to urge that that great American institution, the "Taking of Steps," be applied to the situation, and that a Commission of Investigation be appointed whose pictures shall appear in the next Sunday's issue of The Times-Dispatch.
LE DOUTE A tumult rages Within me. Occasionally, interrupted By a moment of calmThat extreme tranquility Which comes with the thought That one is loved. A delicious joy Shattered in a moment By doubt and fear; Doubt-that such a thing Could be, Fear-of being played withOf being made ridiculous Mingled with a Yearning to believe And a craving to yield. Calmness, again Then, anger Toward myself for being duped Toward him for playing With my sincerity. FoJlowed by an overwhelming Flash of confidence And trust in him. Always to be extinguished By reason.
-11.Femme.
BY ORDER
OF THE DEVIL
( Given second choice in Short Story Contest) FRANCIS
FRANKLIN
He was of an extremely delicate and highly imaginative nature. Having lived in rooms adjoining his for years, I knew him well,the man of poetic sensibilities, of moods, and great emotions, weak in the face of suffering, and frequently complaining of ills. He was a minister, and famous throughout the country for his sermons, which in his hands became works of art, vivid and vibrant with Ii£e. In their presentation, he would work himself into a temperamental fever, and afterwards he would often lie prone for a day, exhausted. He labored assiduously in their composition, and how often has he rushed madly into my room , all in a fever, to convey to me some of his own intoxication. I became a receptacle for all his thoughts and emotions . Yet somehow I counted him one of my greatest friends, and he in his turn regarded me in the same way. Whenever he was ill, suffering from those violent headaches caused by his over-exertion, it was I who nursed him and sat by his bedside, bored, and yet enjoying his excited talk. He lay ill now-but not as usual. There was a sinister tone to his illness, an air of dark and inexplicable mystery. He had now lain thus for two weeks, suffering most intensely. In his agony he. was crying aloud that he might die. Doctors from far and near were in consultation over him. But not a one knew what was wrong. Not a one could aid him in the least. No trouble had been discovered. He had been punched and probed from head to foot, but every organ of his body was declared normal by the physicians. And yet his pain was most violent, and ever increasing. We were in a state of despair and frenzy. This condition of his had commenced in a startling manner. I was arising rather late one Monday morning, still in a sluggish air, half waking, half sleeping, when suddenly I heard issue from my neighbor's room a loud quavering scream. Emitting a monosyllabic oath, I made no other sign of discomposure, and continued slowly lacing my shoe. Just as I was in a hurry, here was my burdensome friend ill again. Really he was becoming a nuisance, and I was weary of being a nurse. Uncharitably I resolved to stop my ears. There were others to hear his groans. But the silence in his room or rather the ticking of his alarm clock, became oppressive. My conscience smote me. With an eloquent groan, bespeaking submission to the
BY ORDER OF THE DEVIL
19
inevitable, I approached his door and called. There was no response. To my third call, the ticking of the clock was my only answer. In an ill humor, I burst into the room. Dr. Burns, in his pajamas, lay sprawling across the floor, his head upon his bed. He was stiff and deathly pale. It frightened me tremendously, and I cried for help. Then, becoming all solicitation, I lifted him, and to my relief found him yet alive. I was beginning an attempt to revive him when a piece of parchment, with a pin in it, falling from his hand, distracted me. These words, printed in large letters, were upon it:
BY ORDER OF THE DEVIL I completely forgot poor Dr. Burns. Others answering my call, looked after him.. But I stood in amazement, gazing at the parchment. It seemed to me like an episode from a melodrama, and for many minutes I stood dumbly holding it. Turning it over at length, I found these words : "If I be not the devil himself, then, am I his ambassador on earth. If what is done this night is not his act, then it is at his almighty command, and by his most trusted servant. Too long thy accursed blasphemies have been heard upon earth, and long enough has the great Archfiend endured it. Tonight he commences to put an end to it all. Know then, that now there flows within thy veins a fluid, if not concocted in the laboratory of Hell, at least concocted in the laboratory of Hell's ambassador on earth. This night I have inserted it into thy veins. Behold thy wrist, and there the mark of my syringe. And truly you may curse the entrance of the stuff into thy blood. You shall not die at once. But slowly, slowly shall you die in anguish; and even now, unless early thou arisest from thy bed, the pains attack you. They shall last so long as thy life, and with the years they shall increase ( and the years shall be many and long) to an agony unspeakable, worse even than that the damned souls in Hell do feel. • Think not to escape thy doom. The fluid is invisible. Physicians may try forever to discover it. They will not find it, nor will they in the least be able to abate thy hideous suffering. Did I not say the formula is the devil's? Thy doom is sealed, and escape is an impossibility." At the completion of this, I seemed to fall into a daze. Looking down at the minister's wrist, I beheld there, in confirmation of what the parchment said, a tiny puncture, like that made by a hypodermic syringe. I thought to myself that it was all a dream, a horrid nightmare. But from across the street I heard distinctly and naturally the sound of a neighbor mowing his lawn. And one does not hear such sounds, so irrelevant and natural, in dreams.
20
THE
MESSENGER
Immediately afterwards appeared swarms of physicians, nurses, police, detectives, and others of their kind. Not a sign of anything was found. The detectives discovered no clues as to the guilty one, and at last cried out in despair that it must indeed have been the devil himself, even in contradiction to what the parchment had said-or at least this ambassador must have been borne hither by the devil's wings. The physicians fell into the same despair. The man was a little weak, but "normal, normal" was the verdict pronounced upon each of his organs. Yet every remotest organ of his body, none greater than the other, caused him most terrific suffering. His blood was found to be entirely pure, as had been foretold. So even the skeptical of men of science along with the nonplussed detectives, inclined almost to the theory of a satanic criminal and a Hellish fluid. Now for two weeks this state of affairs had continued. Daily the minister's suffering grew worse, and the doctors became more despondent. All of us had become mere ornamental appendages, a reassurement to the sick man's subconscious mind, rather than any material aid to his illness. Such were affairs, when late one evening, sitting alone in a room adjoining the minister's, I heard a soft knock at the door. I arose and hastened to open it. The deep twilight was fast turning into night, and, as I peered into the gloom, for a time I could see nothing. Then, a soft and gentle voice broke the silence, "If this is the apartment of Dr. Burns, will you please allow me to enter, and I think that perhaps I may heal him." I drew back in amazement, and, as I did so, someone entered. For a time I gazed at him speechless. The figure before me seemed so tiny, so elfin, and unreal, so like a part of a fairy dream that I knew not whether I had fallen asleep or not. Already I was in a bedazed condition at the minister's sinister disease and at the strange and mysterious events surrounding it. So that now this seemed to crown all, and I knew not what to make of the tiny creature before me. He was an aged dwarf, wiry and active, with gray hair white in spots and bald in spots, while his face and hands also were spotted as though from acid burns. He wore spectacles over his eyes, which were pale blue, very small, and very weak; and one eyebrow was completely burned away. But from their pale blue depths there shone an unusual light of intelligence, of kindliness, and most of all what seemed a devouring curiosity. They fairly gleamed with interest in everything. In his hands he carried two old leather bags. He was very
BY ORDER OF THE
DEVIL
21
nervous, and not for a moment would remain still. His voice was the softest, most melodious I have ever heard in a man. "I have heard of the illness of Dr. Burns, and from a certain experience which I once had myself, I believe that I know what is his trouble. My name is Gaston Leroux. I have been a chemist all my life, and, if you would let me see the minister-" He made an eager step toward the open door, which led into the minister's room. Suddenly thinking that he must be mad, though still in a state of bewilderment, I detained him quickly. I called the two doctors from the next room. They viewed the man suspiciously, and acquiesced in my opinion that he was mad. Gaston Leroux! They had never heard of him-he was not even an M. D. The little fell ow appeared crestfallen, and began to tremble. He was beginning to speak, when of a sudden, the sick man called out from his room. "Bring him in. I don't care who . . . If he kills me . . . all the better . . ." The dwarf hopped toward the door at this, and all his face grew bright. But the physicians held him again. No; he was a quack and crazy no doubt. They could not afford to let him meddle with the patient. The poor dwarf upon this fell into an agony of agitation. He seemed unreasonably disturbed. He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came. His eyes rolled distractedly from the minister's room to the doctors. Dr. Burns cried out again, "Oh, bring him in!" The little man seemed to gain new courage. "Oh, do as he asks," he begged. "If you only knew! I know that I can heal him. Once before I knew a case exactly like this and I healed him within an hour. I tell you I of all mankind know the secret that can restore him to health." "Oh, bring him in, bring him in!" moaned the minister. The physicians would not hear to it. The minister continued to beg, and the little man implored piteously with his eyes. By now my confusion had somewhat abated. I began to notice the light of intelligence in the dwarf's eyes. Also I began to think it was even as my friend had said. Nothing had helped him yet, and, as a last resort, anything might be tried. Therefore, I spoke up for Gaston Leroux, and advised that we see what could be done. They would not listen. For a time, I hesitated. But then when I heard Dr. Burns begin to plead once more, and saw the little fell ow so earnestly entreating me, I made up my mind. He should be given
22
THE
MESSENGER
a chance, regardless of the two physicians. They argued for some time, but at last, in the face of necessity, reluctantly gave their consent. They stood nodding dubious heads, while the strange chemist sprang in two hops to the minister's bedside. He stood silently over him for a time, examining, punching, exclaiming beneath his breath. "Ah, yes," he said at length. "It is the same-the same exactly. Within an hour I can heal him." He stood for a while holding the sick man's hand . .He continued, "Several years ago I knew a case identical with yours. It was an old miser who lived in a hut next door to me. One morning I heard him scream and when I ran into his hut I found him in his bed, a parchment like yours pinned over his breast. He became stricken with the same pains in the same manner. I applied all my science, exerted all my efforts for the poor man, but all in vain, as has been done with you. I could find nothing wrong, no remedy, no relief from his suffering. But late one evening as I was going to him to aid him as best I could, in an empty shed behind his dwelling I heard two voices whispering. They seemed to be enemies of the miser, and were both chemists. One was explaining to the other the revenge he had taken on their enemy. He claimed to have been sent by the devil, to have been given the formula for his fluid by the devil. You may believe that or not. I do not. But it is enough that, in the conversation, the villain explained in detail to his accomplice the nature of the fluid. After which he explained to him the antidote. Of course I could have concocted this from the knowledge of the former, but he saved time, and 'made assurance doubly sure.' Never thinking of having the rogues arrested or even looking to see their . faces, I rushed madly off and commenced work upon the antidote. It is a very difficult and delicate experiment, and it took me days to complete it, for some of the substances are rare and costly. These doctors in here may scorn me that I do not have an M. D. But that is nothing. I am old, and all my life have studied, and piled up knowledge. I know hundreds of chemicals, the very existence of which they are ignorant. But enough. I made this antidote. I hastened to inject it into his veins, watched by his bed, and within an hour he was entirely well. What I did for him, I shall do for you. Only wait while I mix the chemicals, which have been already prepared. It is a very delicate performance. But just a little longer, and all your pains will be over." He skipped over to the table, opened his black bags, laid out before him two hypodermic syringes, and an array of bottles, test-tubes, and
BY ORDER OF THE DEVIL
23
so forth. In a very few moments, he was busily engaged with them, measuring, shaking, stirring, mixing, with all the joy of the scientist, who is at the same time an artist with his work, happy as a child over his toys. The two physicians, meanwhile, drawn thither by curiosity, had entered, and were watching the performance with great displeasure written upon their countenances. The minister, on the other hand, was watching from his bed with the greatest eagerness and hope. Already he seemed to be more calm. Absorbed in watching, he did not groan as formerly, and lay more quietly upon his bed. The mixing continued for some time, until at length the antidote was almost made. The last ingredient was being added, but of a sudden there was a violent explosion, and all went up in smoke. The little fellow's face fell tremendously. He looked despairingly at the ruin for a while. But soon he collected himself. Patiently he cast aside the fruit of his labors, and commenced once more. "Did I not tell you it was very delicate?" This time he worked more slowly, and seemed to concentrate all his faculties on his task to the exclusion of all else. At last that was completed and he held the perfect antidote before him, fondly caressing it with his eyes, as a fond parent watches his child. He picked up one of the syringes, and filled it with the fluid. Laying it down again, he hopped across the floor to wash his hands, and beamed at the minister who was now becoming very excited. He spoke a few calming words, and returned to get the syringe. Seizing the sick man's hand, he thrust the needle into his wrist, and quickly pressed down the cap. "Now, lie quietly," he directed, "and within one hour I am sure that all your pains will have ceased." He squatted down upon the floor to watch, while the two physicians and I drew our chairs nearer to the bed. The minister now lay perfectly still. To all appearances, he was no longer convulsed by his former agonies. It was after only a very few minutes that he declared, "Already I feel easier. The pains are leaving me." Gaston Leroux beamed. He merely took out his watch. The two doctors raised inquiring eyebrows. For a long while, there was nothing heard but the minister's breathing and the ticking of the watch. "Ah, it is delightful, wonderful," murmured the minister again. "Thirty-five minutes," noted Leroux. The physicians rose to their feet. They inquiringly approached the bed. But the chemist waved them back.
24
THE
MESSENGER
"Do not disturb him. You had your chance. Now it is mine." A long interval passed. Suddenly the minister rose upright in his bed. He stretched forth his arms, and exultingly shouted, "I am well." Gaston sprang up in a tremor of delight. "Fifty-five minutes! Fifty-five minutes! It lacks five minutes of being an hour, and you are well." He was prancing with joy. The doctors seized the chemist in amazement. "Tell us," they cried, "what was wrong? What did you use? How--" The dwarf chuckled quietly. "Tell us, tell us," they demanded . He continued to chuckle. "Nothing," said he. "Nothing! What are you talking about? Tell us what you used . How did you--? What do you mean?" "I mean I used nothing whatever," said the dwarf still laughing softly. The doctors gazed dubiously at him. After all he really must be crazy. Gaston sprang swiftly to the table. He picked up the two syringes upon it. One he emptied of its contents. "That is the antidote you saw me prepare." He held up the other, which was empty. "This is the one I used. It contained nothing ." The physicians remained speechless. Gaston laughed once more. "I have long had a theory," said he, "that men are greatly subjected to the influence of imagination. But I wished to put it to a practical experiment. This has been the experiment. Nothing ever entered the veins of Dr. Burns to make him ill. I entered his room, left this paper, and pressed an empty syringe into his wrist, after making sure that he would sleep by means of sleeping powders. Imagination alone caused his illness. Today I told him a tale, pretended to prepare a marvelous chemical and pressed an empty syringe once more into his wrist. Imagination alone has restored him to his former condition." At this poor Dr. Burns fell back against the wall, astounded. The physicians and I gazed wonderingly at one another, then broke into a long and hearty laugh. "Ah, my friend," said one, "here is the true scientist." "No, dear doctor, he is the finished actor," replied the other, who had watched him as he mixed his chemicals.
ODELETTE From the French of Henri de Regnier
If e'er I told My love, t'was to the stream, That lingers, listening, when I lean To it; if e'er I told My love, t'was to the wind That sighs and chatters in the green; If e'er I told my love, 'twas to the bird That darts and sings On windy wings; If e'er I told, Only the echo heard. If I have loved with love untold, Joyous or sad, It was your eyes; If I have loved with love untold, It was your lips, so grave, so true, It was your lips; If I have loved with love untold, 'Twas your warm cheek and fingers cold; And 'tis your shadow I pursue.
- Translated
by Louise Morton.
ACCEPTANCE MARGARET
HALEY
The sun was just dropping behind the mountains when Mazie Klim came out of the kitchen and crossed the yard. She carried in one hand a bucket of scraps for the pigs and in the other a tin pail full of corn for the chickens. As she hurriedly scattered the grain and emptied the scraps, the sky filled with soft, purple hues and the rough, old cabin lost its harsh, crude look in the fading glow of evening. Mazie stopped and stared at the beauty of it all, then hurried inside the cabin. She busied herself with supper, and when it stood smoking on the stove, she went to the door and called. As Mazie started back to her work, she was startled by a snapping of a twig as if some one had suddenly stepped on it. There wasn't a soul around. Paps and Ma couldn't have come in from the fields so soon. She listened. Mazie had never been afraid, but somehow she felt as if she would be if that twig snapped again. It didn't. After a minute she went to the stove and "dished up" the piece of pork and the greens. At Ma's place she put a big tin pitcher of milk with a cloth over it to keep the flies out. In came her father followed by a hard, wiry old woman who was his mother. Everyone called her Ma Klim. "Air yer seen any one 'bout today?" John Klim said as he sat down at the table. "Naw, was yer looking fer anybody, Paps?" He didn't answer, but helped himself to a large part of the greens. They ate in silence. John Klim gobbled down his food, sucking noisily as he drank his black coffee. Ma ate heartily for an old woman. Mazie barely tasted her food, so busy was she in watching the colors fade in the sky. "What air ye starin' at, Mazie?" asked Ma. "You give me the creeps when yer look like that." "N othin' ," Mazie answered absent-mindedly. John Klim held his cup toward the stove without looking up. "Gimme 'nother cup er coffee." Mazie filled it, rose and went about scraping the dishes and testing the water in the kettle. The kitchen was stiflingly hot. John finished and went out into the yard. Ma shuffled after him. Mazie could see them sitting on an old bench smoking. They looked straight at the west with eyes that saw none of the beauty. Mazie washed the dishes, poured the greasy water out of the window, and stacked
ACCEPTANCE
27
the thick china on the table. She went out on the doorstep. John Klim had gone and Ma sat dozing, holding her old clay pipe tightly in her fist. "Where air Paps gone?" the girl asked. "Dunno," mumbled Ma . Mazie sat down on the step. She was a small, quick-moving girl with a mass of tangled black hair . Her long shapely hands were rough from the heavy housework. Her thin face softened as she sat there dreaming. Her big dark eyes shone like stars. Life had been hard, she reflected as she sat there, but she had never complained. She had learned that from her mother. Mazie would never forget her mother. Mrs. Klim was a city woman. She had drifted into the mountains for her health. She was so frail and helpless looking that every one loved and pitied her. John Klim never understood why he had married her. She was certainly useless for farm work, and he was not the kind of a man to want a woman for a plaything. Ma had hated her. Perhaps that was why he had married the frail scrap of a woman. Mazie was like her mother. She loved pretty things and appreciated every change in nature. She was happiest when she was dabbling in her cheap paints, trying to put down all the wonders of the mountains and sky. Her mother had wanted to take Mazie to the city to study, for she realized that the girl had unusual talent. She encouraged her to take an interest in her work. Mazie had always lived for the time when she would go away with her mother to that strange place beyond the mountains . But death had changed the plan, for Mrs. Klim never left her cabin home. "Mazie , what air ye starin' at? Yer got that same silly look yer Ma had." Mazie came from her dreams with a start. "Nothin'," she murmured . "You can't fool me," cackled the old woman. "I knowed yer air up to sumpin'. Jes you wait 'til I tel yer Paps." Mazie flushed. She hated Ma with all her heart, and the old woman knowing this took special delight in teasing her. "It's gettin ' kinder late and I reckon we'd better be gettin' to bed," said Mazie suddenly to hide her feelings . She got up, went inside and lit a lamp. Ma followed , crowing in that silly way of hers. Mazie pretended not to hear the laugh. She adjusted the lamp for Ma, and climbed the ladder to the tiny room under the roof. As she dropped off to sleep, she had the same queer feeling that she had had in the afternoon-the feeling that was close to fear.
28
THE
MESSENGER
She wondered about her father. What was this new business that made him so fugitive and kept him away from home so much. Morning came. John Klim had not returned. This was not unusual, for since his wife's death he often stayed out all night, and came in next morning still a little tipsy and in a vile temper. Ma came to breakfast. She waited around for her beloved John until after the sun had risen. "Goin' to plow the back field?" Mazie asked, trying to make her voice sound conciliating . "Y eale." "It sure air goin' to be hot." "Y eale," Ma answered indifferentl y. She was peering up the mountain side hoping to see John. "Can't yer put it off?" asked Mazie. "Naw." Ma came back from the door to get her slat bonnet from a nail by the window. "You air got it easy sittin' 'round all day <loin' nothin'," jeered Ma. "I'll trade yer ," said Mazie , who loved to be outdoors. "A sickly kid like yer couldn't plow ," was the bitter reply. "Whar air them milk buckets? I most forgot." "I'll do the milking this morning; yer go on," said Mazie, who tried to speak calmly, but she flushed at the slurring remark about her strength. Ma thought that anyone who was called a silly name like "Mazie" and who painted was helplessly weak and useless. Mazie washed the breakfast dishes and then milked. She strained and set away the milk in a cool place. She busied herself with cleaning and cooking until noon. Ma returned from the fields. Still John did not return. All through the afternoon Mazie watched for him. When Ma came in a little before sundown, she looked worried. "Wonder what's keepin' Paps?" Mazie said. "Dunno; business I s'pose." Ma's voice quivered. "What business?" "Dunno." Then, as if to hide her feeling of fear, Ma added crossly, "yer air more like yer Ma, jes' a no account, jabberin' question box. Yer had better get to work." Mazie walked to the door. Everything was quiet and dreamily hot. Ma had taken off her shoes and was dozing in her chair. All the work was done, even the chickens had been fed. She wandered out into the yard and across the fields to her favorite spot where she could watch the birds and sky alone. Mazie dreamed. Soon
ACCEPTANCE
29
she would leave the mountains, and go to the city. She would be great. She knew that she could. When she could get some long slim brushes and fat little paint pots, that her mother had told her about, she would paint all the lovely colors of her ever changing hills. Snap! Mazie whirled quickly, but could see nothing. She had a feeling of being watched. It made her nervous. Everything was breathlessly still. But her dreams had scattered. She sat waiting, her whole body tense. Nothing happened and after several minutes she started home. It was getting late and Paps would be angry if supper were not ready when he came in. Ma had been sleeping heavily. She had worked hard and was tired. She started suddenly when some one entered the cabin. It was John Klim. He came in stealthily. Ma watched him for a moment. He was a great bulk of man with scraggy, unkept, grey hair and a small stubby beard. His heavy brows were drawn together in a fearful frown. The cabin was nearly dark. When Ma got up from her chair, John wheeled and ducked out of the door. He hadn't seen her sleeping there. "Whar air ye goin', John?" He stopped in his flight and crept back into the room. "That you, Ma?" he whispered. "Whar air Mazie?" "Dunno; dreaming 'round some whar. John, yer wanna watch her," grumbled Ma. "She air up to sompin'. She sits 'round all day plannin' and plannin'. One er these days she air goin' to run away. She air jes' like her--" "Shut up. I won't stand fer yer jabberin'. I hev some business to tend to and I want supper right now. Air it ready?" "Almost. You air early, but I'll hustle Mazie." "Ma," he called, as the .old woman shuffled out. "Air ye seen any one 'round today?" She stopped. "Naw." "If anybody comes, I ain't been home and you don't know nothin' 'bout me," he warned, creeping to the window and peering out into the darkness. "A'right," she said. Still she did not move. "John, what air the matter? You look scaret." There was a tenseness behind these simple words that angered John Klim. His mother had guessed his fear and he felt a weakling, a feeling that is never pleasing to a strong man. "Nothin'. That's all you gotta know," he answered doggedly. "Here comes Mazie."
30
THE
MESSENGER
Mazie came in a little breathlessly. She looked from her scowling grandmother's face to her father's disheveled one. She started to speak, but John Klim stopped her: "Hurry up, Mazie. I can't stand 'round all day waitin' fer my supper." Silently she put supper on the table. All through the meal she watched her father. There was something wrong, but she didn't know how to find out what it was. She knew that questions wouldn't help. John finished and went into his room. Presently he returned. There was a slight bulge at his hip that both Ma and Mazie noticed. He was gone without a word, creeping up the mountain like a hunted animal. After he was gone, Ma got up and went into the yard. Mazie was puzzled and worried. She finished the dishes and went to find Ma. The old woman was sitting on the old bench. Her pipe lay forgotten at her side. "Ma, whar air Paps gone?" "Dunno," said Ma. "Ma, you do know. What air he goin' to do? He is toting his gun." "Dunno." After a minute: "If it don't rain soon the corn is goin' to ruin." Ma was determined not to let Mazie know that she, too, didn't understand John's actions. "Ma-" Mazie was persistent. "It's like I say, if it don't rain soon we air goin' to be in a hard way." "Ma! yer gotta tell-" "I recon I'll turn in now. I hev had a hard day." She rose and went into the cabin . Mazie could hear her shuffling around, then everything was quiet . Mazie sat on the step and tried to figure out the strange happenings. It was very dark, not one star shone. The air was sultry and heavy. A death-like hush hung over the mountains. Every now and then heat lightning flashed. Mazie sat for a long time , but could not unravel the mystery. She felt very lonely and small there on the step with the great mountains crowding all around. Suddenly there was a shot. It sounded clear and startling. Several more followed. A dog howled dismally from a farm on the other side of the mountain. All was quiet. Mazie sat tense. Her heart beat rapidly. Ma had gotten up and crept close to the door. She crouched down beside Mazie. Neither
ACCEPTANCE
31
spoke. They did not trust themselves to speak the terrifying thoughts that raced through their minds. After a long time, they heard someone crashing through the woods near the house. They were too horrified to move. A man rushed up. He paused at the clearing and stared at the dark cabin. A flash of lightning disclosed the two figures crouched on the doorstep. He came forward, his hat in his hand, and the star on his shirt shone like a bright, evil eye. "Mrs. Klim," he began. "Yer son was killed by one er my men a little while ago. He was shot because he wouldn't halt when ordered." He announced this in the blunt fashion of a mountaineer. As an afterthought he added. "You know he has been runnin' a still over ther with some er his old cronies. We air been trailin' him fer a long time, and now we caught him red handed." Neither of the two women spoke or moved . He shuffled from one foot to the other. "We'll bring his body over here tomorrow and help you bury him," he muttered apologetically. Still they did not speak. Another flash of lightning revealed their faces to him. At the sight, ·he did something he had never done before. He bowed and spoke very softly, "John weren't all bad." Then as if ashamed of his weakness, he hurried away. Ma shuddered and began to tremble. Mazie put her arm around the old woman's shoulder. Ma kept twisting and untwisting her fingers around Mazie's hand. Her loose mouth mumbled words that died before they reached her throat. She was like a strong house that had suddenly had its foundations knocked from it. The hard scornful, old woman became a weakling. Mazie was too stunned to think. She sat holding Ma tightly in her arms. Her dreams tumbled around her and all her beautiful hopes burst like bubbles. She realized clearly that she would never leave the mountains. Some one had to take care of Ma, and when that was over she would be too old herself to attempt such a change. The thought left her cold. The long, slim brushes and fat paint pots were swept away. Life was hard. It had always been that way for her. Still she didn't complain. Mazie tightened her arm, and held Ma as if afraid that she too would be swept away. Presently tears came. They wept together for John Klim. Softer and softer came the sobs. It was almost morning. Ma's head dropped over on Mazie's shoulder. Mazie's arms relaxed. They slept-the sleep of weariness and acceptance.
THE PROFESSOR JEAN
MAcCARTY
When one advances into the sophistication of juniors and seniors one is no longer greatly surprised at occurrences and personages in the world of college. One can look back complacently on the time when, as a freshman, one continually looked about with startled eyes. However, when one personage still retains the power of surprising you by his inexhaustible originality, ingenuity, and general uniqueness, even though you are a junior or senior, you are apt to examine this person with other than merely startled eyes. Early in your freshman days the personage, who is no other than The Professor, contrives a way to make himself known to you. You may be walking with a friend two hundred yards along the path in advance of The Professor. Suddenly, he hails you. "Hey, sisters, wait a minute." You turn to see a man of no mean proportions hastening his steps to overtake you. He is dressed in a dark blue suit with a strange black hat far back on his grey hair. He is carrying a large bag, presumably filled with books and papers, which gets in his way and impedes his progress. As he comes up with you he stops dead in the path and examines the ground. "Pick that up," he says to you in a voice of command. You, being accustomed to having gentlemen pick things up for you, are a trifle hesitant, and decidedly resentful. You look from him to the ground, and seeing no way of escape, you stoop and pick up a rusty file which you hand him He examines it with the intensest interest, mumbling to himself. He seems to have no thought of budging from the spot, and you leave him to his own devices, and hurry on. All through your freshman year you hear vague tales of The Professor, but you are not greatly interested. You hear he thinks uothing of slapping you on the back in no tender fashion, or of ordering you to help him on with his coat. You get the impression that he is a sort of powerful old bear which had best be avoided at all costs. You hear he teaches Physics, but to you, this is just a name for another of the occult, impossible subjects in which they instruct you during your sojourn in the curious world of college. You carelessly toss aside all thought of Physics or The Professor. In your sophomore year you enter the precincts of the science hall. You find that the Biology lecture room is just down the hall from the Physics lecture room. The Professor, not minding if the world hears his sage remarks, invariably leaves his door open.
THE
PROFESSOR
33
Through the hall resounded his lusty tones. The Biology professor stood not a chance against that other voice. From the other room much laughter was heard-long peals of it-and above it all, the Professor's deep chuckling laughter. His influence on the pronunciation of the students who had taken his course was soon perceived. No one came out of Physics without saying "molecule" with a long "o." The uninitiated said "molecule." You began to think that he must not be so fearful after all. Everywhere you went people said, "Oh! Physics is dreadful-but, really, I'll admit it isn't so bad on account of the Professor. It would be impossible with any other professor." About this time it looked as if you were really going to be drawn into the Professor's domains. Your junior year saw you seated in the class room of the famous Professor. There he stood on a high platform in front of you. He wore a most individual coat of khaki, which enveloped him from chin to ankle. He was very proud of this coat, and liked to ask you how much you'd give him for it. He was, as I have said, a man of mighty build. You always see him standing very upright with his head thrown back. His head is the most characteristic part of him. It is a splendid head with grey hair, nearly white, growing straight up in the air. At intervals of about four or five months, he gets it cut, and this is a great grief to some of his pupils, for he invariably gets it cut too short (as all men do), and thereby loses his crowning glory. His is a most expressive head. He often cocks it on one side like a bird while he is waiting for some gleam of intelligence on your part. When he is doing some experiment with magnets and electric wires he will pause to nod his head, asking only with this gesture whether the girl in front of him understands. She nods her head in the affirmative. The dumb show continues several seconds-he and the girl each nodding vigorously, never saying a word. He does not hesitate to run over to a girl and mess up her hair by rubbing a rod through it in order to charge the rod with electricity. He knows this will make everybody laugh. Again we laugh when he rubs the rod on his own locks. All the time he wears the most solemn expression. He dashes around from one table, where he is demonstrating, to another. After a while he says, "The ladies are getting restless. Goodbye!" Another distinctive feature of the Professor is his eyes. They are piercing blue, but they are never the hard uninteresting blue of a turquoise which promises nothing behind it-only blue and more blue. His eyes are kindly, gentle, with a certain childlike innocence in them. They flash and twinkle when he lights upon an apt analogy
34
THE
MESSENGER
for some problem in his subject. He has endless trouble with the glasses which he finds it necessary to wear. Never was a human being so hampered by a harmless pair of spectacles. He puts them on for a few seconds and reads with them. In an instant he pulls them up over his forehead while he looks at us. They are uncomfortable there. Next, they slide down his nose and he looks over them or out one side of them. Directly he snatches them off and puts them on the table. In half a second he needs them again. He searches his pockets, then runs over to the table. This performance is repeated over and over during a lecture. In a few weeks the Professor knows the name of every student in his enormous classes. In the laboratory, he mounts the stool next to you, and in the course of explaining what you are expected to do in an experiment, he finds out all about you-your name, home, and so on. If you are from his county, your fortune is made, for then He looks rather pityyou are his "kinswoman" or his "kinsman." ingly on the poor unfortunate "city" women. They are all right, but they just haven't seen much. What do they know of pumps, and ploughs, and things? During his lecture he appeals to his "kinswoman" thus, "See <lat, Kinswoman? You understand that because you're a country woman." He ever appeals to different members of Always the answer comes in the afhis class, "Swear to <lat?" firmative. One must swear-it's part of the game. The Professor never lacks for an analogy. He looks out across the campus, and his eyes grow misty. Directly his eyes begin to dance gleefully. "Miss X, what is dry air? Well, Miss X, it's just like this. When is a girl out of clothes? When she hasn't got any? Oh, no. When she hasn't got as many as she would like to have. If a girl from our county, Kinswoman, came up to live on Monument Avenue she would say she was out of clothes. Dry air is air that He then breaks into a would like to have some more moisture." shoulder. "A virtual the on victim guffaw and slaps the nearest image, Miss Y? You see it's like this. A virtually married girl is a girl who is not married, but I think there's not much hope for the man. A virtual image is not an image, but you think it is." Who will ever forget what he told you about the surf? "Don't you know what makes the surf, sister? Why, one end of the wave is in deeper water than the other. The end in deep water falls over the other. It's just like Peter Rabbit. When you shoot at his hind leg his heels fall over his head." When you pau~e to consider that each one of his analogies brings unstinted laughter from his class, and that the Professor makes them up with the greatest facility, I think
THE
35
PROFESSOR
we must grant that he succeeeds in making Physics something that one remembers. "Professor, how do you work this problem?" asks a student. "Well, we haven't got that quantity given, nor this, but I can get around that. I'll use another formula," he answers. "Oh, yes. I see now. I didn't know that formula," says the student. The Professor chuckles, "Nuff said?" he asks. "Sister, if you'll just remember that formula it will get you out of a peck of trouble. That formula is as important in electricity as the first commandment is in Sunday School." The longer you know the Professor the more you appreciate him. He is always the first to admit that he is wrong-if such is the case. He is kindliness and justness personified. Above all, he is a philosopher. He loves people and believes in helping to make the world an amusing place to live in. He says he plays with us in class, and indeed, he does. But he is serious, too, and of ten gives us advice for our lives. Behind all his facetiousness we recognize a powerful intellect. Because he is interested in all kinds of people, we rarely see him walki~_g alone across the campus.
A SONG OF ROMANY I love her as the red sun loves the sea To which at dusk it gives a lingering kiss, Tinged with no thought of sorrowful parting To dim with vain longing the moment's bliss . I love her as a green wave loves the beach, To which for an instant white arms it flings, And then goes as lightly as it had come As a conch shell whispers of newer things. I love her as the mad moon loves the night With whom for one ecstatic month she stays, And then one early morning slips away, And heart and fancy free again she strays. I fear to love more deeply than these three, For I from pain and heart break would be free.
-Louiu
Gayle.
BOOKS Reading ma.keth a full man. -Bacon. Books! What memories the word stirs up in me! I love themold ones, new ones, warped and dirty ones, clean ones, large ones, small ones-all of them ! I can scarcely think of a greater joy than that of picking out a library of books that should be my own. I should want, of course, the Bible. Then would come Shakespeare's glorious works. There would be Aristotle, and Plato, and Voltaire, and Kant and other philosophers. There would be a large place for the poets. In this place I would put, first of all, my favorite, Byron, and then he would be joined by a host of others. Milton, Shelley, Keats, Homer, Cowper, I cannot name them all. Certainly I would have an essayists' corner, where Bacon, and Macaulay, and Carlyle, and Ruskin, and Addison might hold forth their individual beliefs I and theories , so many in such a marked contrast to each other. my out pick to came I when section extra an build to would have short stories and novels. Poe must necessarilly be there, and I could not forget Stevenson, or De Maupassant, or 0. Henry, or Scott, or No , there are numbers and numbers without Irving, or Hawthorne. which I would feel lost. And what a joy I would feel when I had collected them. They would not remain on the shelves never to be touched; I would sit in the quiet evening and pore over them and caress them and love them as if they possessed life itself. I would sit and dream and look at them as they sat on the shelves. And I would build again in my I would see the mind their scenes, and characters , and actions. Greek soldiers the then and Troy, into rolled was it as horse wooden as they leaped out of the big horse and conquered the sleeping and careless city. I would see "II Penseroso" as he sat before the fire at night and pondered the mysteries of life. I would see Addison, in his seventeenth century dress, as he walked down to a meeting of the Spectators' Club. Yes, there would be an endless joy in it all. And then, when my eyes tired from long reading, I would close them slowly, and slumbering, would carry myself into a world of G. K. -H. real dreams.
BOOK REVIEW Elmer Gantry, Sinclair Lewis.
Harcourt, Brace & Co. (1927)
We have read a number of articles which purport to be concerned with this latest book of Sinclair Lewis', but inevitably they forsake the book itself either to exult in praise of the author's viewpoint or in execration of the charges which he brings against the clergy. Elmer Gantry, the book, cannot justly be criticized or evaluated by the criterion of Menckenism. If we wished to attack or def end contemporary Christianity we should employ other means than by a criticism of a book which is not so much a novel as it is a religious tract written in the form of a novel. In this book Sinclair Lewis - is less of a novelist than a pedant. We must, however, consider the book from the standpoint of a novel rather than a peclaegogus. We shall attempt to treat Lewis as a novelist and not Lewis as a crusader against Christianity. As for the charges which he brings against the church and the clergy we feel certain that the clergy will exonerate itself-at least it will try to, and so any effort of this kind on our part would obviously be both unnecessary and superfluous.
Elmer Gantry is the biography of a minister. We see him in college, in the theological seminary, as a country pastor, as a traveling evangelist, as pastor of a large city church, and as a leader of reform. The same traits of character are predominant throughout the entire Lewis makes use of book. He is ignorant, selfish, unscrupulous. Gantry's relations with women as a means of showing the filth and degradation of which men like Gantry could be capable. There is no appreciable plot to the book. The theme is concerned with Elmer Gantry in all of his varied activities and relationships, with the weakness and hypocrisy of churchmen in general, and with the many flaws and clefects in the Christian religion, as the author sees it. Lewis' chief attack is upon the Baptists and the Methodists. He does not neglect, however, to sling a few good handsful of mud at the other denominations. Of the Episcopalians he says: "All you have to do is to get some sound and perfectly meaningless doctrine and keep repeating it. You won't bore the laymen-in fact the only thing they resent is something that is new so they have to work their brains. Oh, no, the Episcopal pulpit for actors that aren't good enough to get on the stage . . ." He dismisses the Catholic Church with a single good sideswipe. "The Roman Catholic Church is superior to the militant Protestant Church. It does not compel you to give up your sense of beauty,
38
THE
MESSENGER
your sense of humor, or your pleasant vices.. It merely requires that you give up your honesty, your reason, your heart and your soul." A good part of the book is taken up with an account of the traveling troupe of evangelists with whom Elmer Gantry affiliated himself. The leader of the troupe, a girl named Sharon Falconer, is even less real than Gantry himself. The hysterical revival meetings held by these high-powered "salesmen of salvation" are treated with a certain amount of understanding and appreciation, and the paramount evils of evangelism are dealt with at some length. In the entire four hundred and thirty-two pages of the book there is not, in our opinion, a single strong characterization. There is not a person mentioned who sticks in one's mind as a type or a personality. Elmer Gantry himself is not a man. He is the exemplification of all the commonness and sordidness of which the fertile brain of the author can conceive. He is less of a man than a monster. There are altogether too few touches of artistry in the book. One or two incidents are handled with the consummate skill of which Lewis is capable in his best moments. Considered from the standpoint of art and technique Elmer Gantry is condemned by mediocrity. The characters of Judson Roberts and Frank Shallard are done better than any others in the book with the possible exception of Eddie Fislinger. The incident of the meeting of Elmer Gantry with his infidel room -mate of college days is handled with touches of mastery, but sadly it is above the quality level of the rest of the book. There is at the very last a barb of particularly keen satire. The Rev. Doctor Gantry is praying: "'We thank Thee because we can go on doing Thy work and Thine alone. Not less but more zealously shall we seek utter purity and the prayer-life, and rejoice in freedom from all temptations!' "He turned to include the choir, and for the first time he saw that there was a new singer, a girl with charming ankles and lively eyes, with whom he would certainly have to become well acquainted . But the thought was so swift that it did not interrupt the paean of the prayer." If "Babbitt" condemned Rotary, Elmer Gantry condemns the Church. The chief criticism of the book is that Lewis is concerned more with his theology than with the art of the novel. We shall not attempt to criticize his theology or lack of it. There may be some foundation for the accusations which he makes. But this is not for S.S. -M. the reviewer to decide.
THE MESSENGER RICHMOND W.
E.
JAMES
COLLEGE
SLAUGHTER,
Editor-in-Chief
H.
Business Manager
GORDON,
M. S. SHOCKLEY, Assistant Editor H. G. KINCHELOE, Exchange Editor LLOYD CASTER,
MACCARTY,
GRAY ROBINSON, ELINOR PHYSIOC, Assistant
TAYLOR,
REGINALD
TATE,
Staff Artist
WESTHAMPTON JEAN
Asst. Bus. Mgr. Asst. Bus. 1kfgr.
WELLFORD
COLLEGE
Editor-in-Chief Business Manager
Editor
MILDRED ANDERSON,
Asst. Bus. Mgr.
THE EDITORIAL PEN "LA GUIRLANDE
DE JULIE"
Le printemps ! Our Julie of the twentieth century woke up one morning on "Tower Hill" with the odor of spring coming through her windows. Unfortunately, Julie, not being like her friend, Julie de Rambouillet, of a few centuries ago, had no gallant train of admirers besieging her mother's salon in the hope of winning the daughter. Since she had no Montausier to present her with a guirlande of madrigaux decorated with nymphs and zephyrs, she determined to make a tour of her domains, namely, the campus, and gather for herself a garland of fresh wildflowers. She tripped down the stairs, and out into the delicious morning air. She started down the path from the top of the hill. In the dew sparkling grass she spied a rare flower of silver and blue tints. "Ah! tout a fait charmante." She bent to pluck the first flower for her guirlande. Breathless, she snatched it up. "Mais, qu' est-ce done?" It was a gleaming silver box with gobelin blue stripes. On it in letters of blue and silver she read this madrigal : "GOOBERS Sc-Tempting and Tasty Extra fine peanuts covered with pure sweet milk chocolate" Close by grew another flower-a large cover of a package in sunset shades of flame, orange, and yellow with the madrigal, "Sunshine
40
THE
MESSENGER
Marshmallow Sandwich," printed in dazzling white letters. A little farther on she noted a whole clump of vari-colored fleurs. In the midst beamed a gala cover, white on the edges, an orange square in the center, with "No Kiddin'" in glaring purple letters written across the center. Below was "Nuts Enough." By its side lay a white wax paper with a square of cherry red enclosing "BABY RUTH," "America's favorite." An especially conspicuous and common flower grew everywhere in great profusion on both sides of the path. This was a little thin envelope with Mr. Peanut in man's attire waving the scarlet pennant over "Planter's Salted Peanuts""The Nickel Lunch-Sc Sold in the bag with Mr. Peanut and the Red Pennant on it." An exotic flower Julie next added to her garland-a silver slip of paper with "Peanut Butter Patties" in jade lettering. "C omme elle est jolie !" She tripped on clown the hill, darting here and there on both sides of the path, and making excursions all through "Dogwood Dell." She collected a large assortment of coupons, United Cigar Store Co. and Prince Albert tobacco cans, Miller & Rhoads envelopes, guest bills for the Hotel Richmond, apple cores, Chocolate Angles, Sunshine Biscuits, cigarette packages, and N B Uneeda cracker boxes. She advanced on around the lake, always acquiring new madrigals, until she came to the bridge and the water fall. This charming spot, too, had its exuberant foliage of newspapers, envelopes, and paper bags creeping up between the crevices in the rocks, and even ornamenting the rocks themselves, and the sides of the stream. The lawn about the Science Hall fairly blossomed with "Lorna Doone Shortbread," "Mr. . Goodbar Chocolate," and "Lucky Strike." Here, also flourished a marvelous flower called an "Eskimo Pie," a silver paper, lettered in blue, featuring a huge midnight sun. The "Dabney Boot Shop" announced its wonderful spring sale. The ground around the Student Shop could hardly be seen for the flowers. This was true also of the path from the Student Shop to the Administration Building. Julie, having traversed the campus, sat down to ponder upon her strange and marvelous guirlande. She began to read aloud to herself the madrigal printed beside each flower. Their rhythm did not sound exactly like the rhythm of the 1nadri.gaux beside each flower
THE EDITORIAL PEN in the guirlande of her seventeenth century sister. Julie" ( de Rambouillet) read like this :
41 The "Zephire a
"Recevez O N y1nphe adorable Dont !es coeurs recoivent !es lo-is Cette couronne plus durable Que celles que l' on met sur la tete des Rois."
She did not think her Goobers and Baby Ruths compared favorably with this. She began to be a bit ashamed that such a lovely campus could not produce flowers of more melodious names. She thought that it might be a very good idea for the senior class, of which she was a member, to establish the custom of planting some real wild flowers about the campus, which was unusually devoid of them. They could be obtained from near by woods and induced to lend a new beauty to an already beautiful campus. "But," she reflected, "if the present species of 'Eskimo Pies' and 'Lorna Doone Shortbreads' is allowed to flourish without being assiduously weeded out, the campus will soon become a blot on the face of nature, and visitors will remark on what poor gardeners we are. They will exclaim in horror, 'Why these strange inhabitants not only do not plant flowers, but they do not even keep out the weeds!"' For, after all, she sadly perceived that her morning tour had brought her, not a fair guirlande de fleurs, but a handful of weeds dignified by the title of "TRASH" ! !
THE SHORT STORY CONTEST In this issue appear the two winning stories in the recent contest conducted by THE MESSENGER. The staff wishes to express its appreciation of the services of Miss Grace Landrum, of Westhampton College, and Professors H. B. Handy and C. L. Dodds, of Richmond College, who acted as judges. Mr. 0. A. Lundin, Jr., whose story, "A Soldier of France," was awarded first place, is a Junior in Richmond College and has been writing for several years. His work has appeared in previous issues of THE MESSENGER. Mr. Francis Franklin entered Richmond College this session as a Sophomore, after spending his first year at Bluefield College. All members of Sigma Upsilon of Richmond College and ·writers' Club of Westhampton College were barred from participation in this contest.
For Your Spring ...
Fraternity Club Parties and Dances SAIL DOWN THE JAMES TO THE YACHT
CLUB
With TOM KERSE Randolph Capacity
5236-J
Special Prices to College Parties
60 Passengers
Athletic Outfitters 1338 GS<.,
I
N. W.
Washington, D. C.
✓/(µ~
J-7• '\.
r Hunter & Co., Inc. 105 East Broad Street, Richmond, Va. BOOKS STATIONERY PRINTING
ENGRAVING
-·-a
,,_
The Student OF RICHMOND
OF THE UNIVERSITY
Will enjoy "browsing" in our store; there is no obligation to make a purchase; you are welcome here at all times. BOOK STORE
THE SOUTH ' S LARGEST
Methodist Publishing House STREET
AT FIFTH
GRACE
Meister & Smethie BOOKBINDERS Nos. 105 - 107 Governor Street RICHMOND, VIRGINIA Estimates Long
Cheerfully Given
Distance
Telephone
Madison
3910
ALL THE STUDENTS OF THE UNIVERSITY OF RICHMOND Will Always
Receive
a Warm Welcome
at
All the Services at the
Second Baptist Church FRANKLIN AT ADAMS SUNDAY
SCHOOL
PUBLIC
WORSHIP
B. Y. P. U.
9:30 A. M. • •• • 11 A. M. and 8 :00 P. M. 7:00 P. M. . ....... •
•
•
SOLON B. COUSINS, Minister '
COTTRELL & COOKE N
C
O
R
P
R
O
A
T
E
D
P·r·i·n·t·e·r·s OF
THE
MESSENGER
1308-10 EAST FRANKLIN, RICHMOND, VA.
Crozer Theological Seminary Tuition and room rent free. Scholarships available to approved students. Seminary within 13 miles of Philadelphia. Metropolitan Seminary's relations to University of Pennsylvania advantages. warrant offer of the following courses: 1. Regular Courses for Preachers and Pastors. Seminary . Degree of B. D. or Diploma. 2. Training for Community Service. Seminary and University. Degrees of B. D. and A. M. 3. Training for Advanced Scholarship. Seminary and University. Degree of Th. M. at Seminary, or Ph. D. at University. For Information
Address
REV. MIL TON G. EVANS, LL. D., President, Chester, Pa.
The University of Virginia EDWIN THE
TRAINING
A. ALDERMAN, GROUND
President
OF ALL
THE
PEOPLE
The College, Graduate Studies, Departments represented: Education, Engineering, Law, Medicine, The Summer Quarter, The Extension Division. Also Degree Courses in Fine Business and Commerce . Tuition in Arts, Architecture, Academic Departments free to Virginians . All expenses reduced to a minimum. Loan funds available for men and Address women .
THE REGISTRAR, University, Va.
GOOD FOR THE EYES
!.!!! S. Galeski
Optical Co.
LEADING - LARGESTOLDEST OPTICAL HOUSE SOUTH
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,
PRINTING COLLEGE
Richmond, Va. '
ANNUALS FRATERJ\TJTY
DANCE LITERATURE
"COAL FROM Quality Coal
PROGRAMS
: Screened Clean
SILOS" : Personal Service
BY
Massey & Wood IVOR
MASSEY
KENNETH
WOOD
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 service 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
apid OCOi.J~TES ~---'-=
JUI
WE 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 AT
Dinty Moore's 3009 WESTHAMPTON
AVENUE
TO EAT SPECIAL
RATES
TO COLLEGE
LUNCHES,
FRATERNITY
LUNCHES
DELIVERED
BANQUETS, ANY
ETC.
TIME
"SAY IT WITH FLOWERS"
204 5TH
NORTH
B. L. NAUMANN
CO. TELEPHOYB
ST,
MAD.
FLORIST
FLOWERS FOR
OPPOSITE
EVERY OCCASION
O'ITO
B. NAUMANN,
& RHOADS
MILLER 5TH
215
ST.
ENTRANCE
REPRESENTATIVE
THE YOLKS OF FRESH EGGS Are used in Kroog's
(formerly Abrams')
made flavor and golden color.
handle Kroog's (formerly Abrams')
9 East
Grace Street
Cakes to give it that delicious home-
Demand the genuine of your dealer-if
he doesn't
Cakes, phone us.
Randolph 4291
New EnglandMutualLifeInsuranceCo. 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
W.
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 Suppdrted 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 Con ven ien t
Safe
THE BOYS' MEETING
PLACE, AS WELL
AS THE OLD GRADS RICHMOND HOME.
BROAD STREET AT EIGHTH