SENORS PARDON ( Short Story) . Lawrence N. Bloomberg
THE RED WALL (Sketch)
WHEN I SHALL DIE (Poem)
Margaret Lowe
Catherine Branch
REVENGE (Short Story)
Mercer O. Clark
FRENCH TRANSLATION CONTEST
CARNIVAL (Sketch)
T. P. Mathewson
As HE LIKED? (Short Story)
Donald R. Mann
THIS CHRISTIAN NATION (Sketch) . J.E. Nettles
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Sing Me a Song
Sing me a song, Love, When the dew is on the grass, When the stars are tears of heaven As they watch the moon stream pass.
Sing me a song, Love, That you have not sung before, When the trees are black lace shadows On the path before my door
Sing me a song, Love, And when the song is done, Leave me with one kiss, Love, Before my heart is gone
-Mildred Anderson.
SENORS, PARDON ..
LAWRENCEN. BLOOMBERG
DON MANUEL RODRIGUEZwas married; he did not know exactly why or how it had occurred. His wife was everything but pretty and held no charms for him now nor had she ever done so to to the best of his recollections. Nevertheless they were married and it was Don Manuel's easy going nature to make the best of it. She cuffed him about and scolded to the top of her lungs about trivial matters, but was jealously careful of his fidelity.
Don Manuel was a lazy vagabond. Nothing pleased him more than to loll for hours in the shade of the inn and cast eyes at the pretty girls of the town until the hot Spanish sun would droop his eyelids and he would doze off to sleep with a loud snore. More often, however, it was the Dofia who interrupted his love making.
It was on a day something like this that our story opens. The sun had just passed its topmost height above the little town of Del Rey. A cloud of dust, raised by a herd of sheep, was making its way from the street to settle in the throats of some stragglers dozing in front of the inn. The noon siesta was having its influence on most of the inhabitants of the town. It was something of a sacred law not to invade the sanctuary of quiet with anything like a noisy disturbance. This unwritten law was for the most part kept, but it seemed that it was doomed for a breaking upon that day.
Our "Don Juan" Manuel was nonchalantly tickling the bottom of one of the town girls' feet with a straw and meanwhile pouring forth ardent love words into her listening ears. He was handsome and had a way with the women, that is with all except one - the inevitable spouse.
In the hut of Don Manuel, for we shall not venture to call it more than that, Don Carlos Rodriguez was paying a visit to see how his good-for-nothing brother was getting along.
"Oh, he is a changed man, Carlos. Since that last time that you spoke to him and promised to help him if he would settle down and behave, he has hardly gone out at all and has been working so hard."
"Maria, I hope for your own sake that what you say is true. I know how lenient you try to be to him and so good. By the way, where is he now? I should like to see him, as I must return to Madrid this afternoon."
"He usually spends the little time that he has to himself down at the inn talking over affairs with some of the men of the village," answered Dofia Maria.
"WeII, let us go down there at once."
The quiet of the noonday siesta was shattered by a shout from Dofia Maria . . . she arrived at the inn just in time to find her husband indulging in a lengthy kiss with a pretty senorita. A loud smack resounded on the side of Don Manuel's cheek . . . then Maria caught him by the ear, twisting it unmercifuily. Suddenly she thought better of the situation, that is, in view of what she had just told Carlos, and leaned over, patted Don Manuel's cheek and kissed it, then she turned to lead him to Don Carlos . . . but Carlos was gone.
Another solid whack shattered the repose of the noonday air and a sharp scuffle ensued, in which Don Manuel was led squirming to his home like a bad child.
"You good-for-nothing wretch, Carlos was here to see you . . . and he saw you . . . there making love to the chica. He was going to give you some money, but you had to ruin it all with your stupidity."
"But how did I know that he was coming today?" asked Don Manuel rakishly.
"Bah," ejaculated his wife. * * * * * * *
Three or four years pass, and we again see the same scene in the same town of Del Rey. Nothing changed at all, neither Don Manuel or Dofia Maria, nor the inn or the town square.
Yes, there was one change, a little bit of the twentieth century had crept into the town in the shape of an inconspicuous beauty shop. A handsome man, Don Sebastian Martinez, presided over this tenth Muse, dedicated to a false but nevertheless effective art.
As Dofia Maria was careful of her husband's fidelity, so was she careful of the secret of the wig that adorned her head. So zealously had she kept her secret that even her husband was unaware of its existence.
Many times of late she could be seen making her way to the newly founded beauty shop. So of ten in fact that the people of the town were beginning to whisper among themselves. Strange as it may seem to us that the villagers, knowing Dofia Maria as well as they did, should have connected her with scandal, at least along the lines of infidelity. But, nevertheless, Don Sebastian was handsome and he may have seen something in Dofia Maria, who was, in spite of her disposition, a none too ugly woman herself, that is, in everyone's eyes but those of her husband.
And so we find our Dofia Maria, for once in her life, the most talked about woman of the village. She, whose tongue had wagged so profusely about other people and their affairs , was now the object of much mouthy wrath, made stronger by the women of the town out of revenge for the many years of idle talk about themselves, received at her hands.
But when this subject was subtly broached to our friend, Don Manuel, he laughed and cocked one eye to his interviewer, "Diablo, why doesn't he take her away? I'd be glad to get rid of her. Haw, haw."
Now we discover that no word of the scandal aired abroad had reached the ears of Dofia Maria. She was still innocent . . . that is innocent of any knowledge on the subject.
Meanwhile, she was just as vigilant and careful of her husband's fidelity as she had ever been; this to the great amusement of the villagers.
And so it happened one evening that Don Manuel's curiosity got the better of him and he slipped out of the house to follow his wife on one of her nocturnal escapades, to the little shop of Don Sebastian.
The door to the shop opened and Dofia Maria slipped in. Don Manuel saw a light flicked to the side of the building and he made his way around there, hoping that he could climb up to obtain a view of the two lovers. He looked about for something to stand on, but did not succeed in finding anything strong or tall enough to raise him to the little chink in the wall through which he could see the light streaming. The next best thing to do, if he wanted to hear his wife make love, probably for the first time in his life, was to put his ear to the thin wall, listen to the conversation and judge from that what the scene was.
"How beautiful your hair must have been, long ringlets of spun gold," Don Manuel heard Sebastian begin artfully.
"Yes, they were pretty," murmured Dofia Maria.
"And now, how wonderful you look tonight!" continued Sebastian.
"And you, you are very handsome yourself, Don Sebastian. Listen! Remember, no one must ever discover our little secret. It is very dear to me. I should be disgraced before everyone. Not even that scamp of a husband of mine must know, even though it would not make much difference to him now. If he had known about this, we might never have been married. Caramba! I wish that I had told him; I might be happier now."
Outside, Don Manuel puckered up his eyebrows and put a hand over his mouth to chastise a yawn. "And she had to pick me out to
marry, of all the men in the world. Poof!" He got up from where he had been listening and hurried along to his hut, having satisfied his curiosity.
When some fifteen minutes later, Dofia Maria returned, Manuel opened one eye slyly to look at her and turned over again and went to sleep.
It was queer, that in the next few days, during which time Dofia Maria, interrupted several of his flirtations, that Manuel did not make some remark to her about what he had overheard, but indeed he was so thoroughly cowed into submission by his wife that he did not dare to open his mouth.
Just at this time, Don Carlos Rodriguez paid another of his beneficent visits to Del Rey. He went past the little hut, and finding no one at home made his way to the inn, where, indeed, on a previous occasion, he had found his brother. After being profusely welcomed at the inn, most likely for his very prosperous appearance, he looked about for Manuel, and not seeing that individual, he sat down, called for a bottle of the finest wine and decided to wait.
Don Manuel had slipped home to hunt in the little jar for some pesos to pay his score. He crept silently into the house and over towards the shelf where he had discovered that the little jug was hidden. A piece of white paper, neatly folded, lay upon the floor, and for some reason or another it attracted him. He picked it up and stuck it into his pocket without even looking at it. His hands went out towards the jug and he carefully removed it from its hiding place; it was heavy and the clinking of the coins enlightened his eyes. He shook it again and again; listening to it and smiling greedily. The jug was soon overturned on the table and a few pieces of gold and silver clattered out. Dofia Maria had been saving for a long time he knew . . . and when there were a great many coins, she wouldn't miss a few of them so quickly. He fingered the few pieces on the table.
"Son of the son of a jackass, put that money back," screeched Dofia Maria, who had just come to the doorway and stood there watching. She reached for a stick, but Manuel was too quick and darted past her into the open street. She did not follow, but gathered up the money and put it back into the jug with the rest, after having counted all of the contents to make sure that the scamp hadn't made away with any of it. "Just enough," she murmured, hiding the jug away agam.
While all this was going on, Don Carlos was enjoying himself at
the inn. Wine had done a good deal to make him talkative and to take off his usual coat of reserve . . . but he was not too drunk.
And now to make a story, we must have the village gossip arrive on the scene . . . meet Don Carlos and acquaint him with the scandal concerning his brother's wife.
"Bah, the pigeon-livered scamp, a Rodriguez will never be a cuckold. He will have to fight," raged Don Carlos and stormed out of the inn.
Don Manuel was peacefully swinging down the street with his hands in his pockets. One of his hands encountered the little piece of white paper which had fascinated him. He drew it out and read, "The horses will be ready tonight; be at the shop at ten."
Manuel laughed, "Santa Maria, I thank you, tomorrow she will be gone and I shall be free."
But . . . just then he ran into the enraged Carl os.
"You scoundrel, every time that I come here with every good intention of helping you, something else is wrong. Diablo, I shall see that you fight this time. Remember you are a Rodriguez, and you never forget or forgive. What do you know about this affair between your wife and Don Sebastian Martinez?"
"But . . . but . . . I . . . I don't care if she goes away with him, I don't want her," blurted Manuel.
"Does what with him?" thundered Carlos.
"Goes away with him," stamme r ed Manuel.
"How do you know that she is going away with him," questioned Carlos angrily.
"Here this paper . . . a note I found," answered Manuel meekly; he had always been awed before his vindicative brother.
Don Carlos did not even look at the note, but cried, "And you . . . you a Rodriguez . . . to be a yellow-bellied pig; you were going to let your wife leave you without a fight with the man who was taking her away?"
"But . . . but . . . I want to get rid of her," Manual insisted and turned to walk away. Don Carlos caught him roughly by the shoulder and turned him entirely around.
"You are going to fight with him . . . to the death. The hot blood of my ancestors boils in my veins. Come on."
And we see a meek little lamb led away to the slaughter. We say slaughter . . . for it is necessary to say here a bit concerning Don Sebastian Martinez. This worthy senor had left a string of broken hearts, broken families . . . and dead husbands up and down the length of Spain. He had tired, however, of this life and
had settled down, to the great relief of the husbands of pretty wives. Knowing a little about Don Sebastian, it is no small wonder that when his fortune had fallen apart, and he was forced to enter into a business, that of a beauty expert, a trade requiring much flattery and artifice, he was certain to succeed.
Don Carlos, after a bit, thought better of taking his brother directly to Don Sebastian, so led him to the inn and ordered wine for him. Soon, the worthy Manual was thoroughly wine soaked and his brother began subtly to goad him on. He promised him a great fortune if he killed Don Sebastian; and swore that he could leave Dofia Maria, the common baggage, if he only won the fight. It did not require much persuasion to make Manuel, in his condition, the greatest swordsman in all of Spain. With a grand flourish of bravado, Don Carlos and Manuel left the inn to look for Don Sebastian. Quite naturally a large crowd followed them. Carlos distributed some gold coins to the civic police, who politely tipped their hats and went home to go to sleep.
The crowd assembled around the little beauty parlor and Carlos and Manuel pushed their way in. A little wizened old man, at the direction of Carlos, had followed them with a case of duelling swords.
Don Sebastian stood his ground before them; he had been warned beforehand of what was about. It must have been delicious to the old master who had been placed in similar predicaments so often before. He sniffed the air like a war horse at the sound of a bugle.
"Why all the disturbance?" began Sebastian.
"You know well enough," snapped Carlos.
And the embravened Manuel added, "You were going to have the horses ready tonight to take my wife away."
"The horses?" questioned Sebastian surprisedly.
"I found the note; don't deny you were going to take her away," grow led Manuel.
"The note ! . . . Oh, I see. Are you certain there is no mistake?" answered Sebastian.
"None," said Manuel stolidly.
"Santa Maria, what a blow to my taste," said Sebastian aside. Then to Manuel and Carlos who were standing in menacing positions before him, "Sirs, if you feel that your honor has been in any way injured, I trust that I am able to give you ample satisfaction."
Then Carlos, who seemed to be the director of the affair, said to the waiting Sebastian, "Here, take your choice," handing the case of duelling swords to him," it will be a fight to the death . . . to the death . . . understand?"
Sebastian calmly drew a sword out of the case, as did Manuel.
Both men whipped the air several times with the steel; it seemed as though Manuel had regained some of his youthful agility.
The men stood facing each other in a room about three hundred square feet strewn here and there with furniture.
During all of the excitement, Dona Maria was still at her little home dreaming about that night . . . at ten o'clock. . . . "How beautiful I hope to look," said she to herself and strutted up and down before a partly broken mirror. She went over to the little brown jug and poured all of the money on the table and recounted it, fingering it lovingly as she did so. "Think how hard I have worked for all of this . . . but tonight I shall be happy . . . it's plenty for . . . for . . oh! I can hardly wait," she murmured.
The two men still stood facing each other. "On guard," cried Sebastian and his blade rang out as it crashed against that of Manuel.
Manuel leaped back surprisingly nimbly, parried a thrust and gave one in return. They circled around each other trying to find a weak spot in their opponent's guard.
Finally Sebastian was satisfied as to the real greatness of his adversary's skill and playfully pricked Manuel's shirt with the point of his sword and laughed. Manuel reddened considerably and answered with a steady stream of wild blows. Sebastian laughed again and sent his blade cleanly through the flesh of Manuel's sword arm. The blade slipped out of the worthy's grasp and he sank to the floor. The assemblage stayed to see the kill, but Sebastian spoke, "Take him away."
Don Carlos helped his brother begrudgingly to his feet and was about to take him out of the shop when Sebastian went over and placed himself between them and the door.
Sebastian spoke again, "I suggest now, that you two senors return to the schools to learn how to read. If you had read my note to the Dona Maria correctly, you would have seen . . . "The hair will be ready tonight; be at my shop at ten." . . . Gentlemen, it is only the difference between an e and an a, but you readily know that cabellos [Spanish for hair J and caballos [meaning horses] are far from being the same thing. Senors, pardon the little misunderstanding. . . . I am very sorry that I was forced to wound one of you . . . but I was only making a new wig for the Dona Maria; she wished to keep it a secret from all of you. I tried to do my part, but no w I feel that an explanation is due you for your own sake and to defend .an injury to my own taste and honor as well. Good day."
THE RED WALL
MARGARET LOWE
THE ugly grey train stopped creakingly at the Taian station. The travel-worn and dusty hordes from the train mingled violently with the equally dusty masses who were shrilling their wares in high staccato voices or plowing their way with bent backs and sharp elbows through the crowd to the small gateway marked "exit." Ai Dai looked inquisitively about her, a tiny bit afraid of the great crowd of people. In her village they boasted endlessly of the great crowds that gathered once a week on market day, but this city crowd would have swallowed that boasted crowd up many times, like a donkey swallowing a whisp of hay. Adventurous as she felt, she was bewildered and allowed herself to be swept along with the mass, crushed through the little gate which had once been white, and out into the clamorous street.
Ai Dai wanted to go up Tai Shan. She could see its great humpbacked outline towering above the roof of the squalid houses, but she must ask directions as to how to get to it. Countless tortuous streets and alleys jumped away in all directions, promising confusion to the too venturesome traveler. There was a fat-faced woman across the street watching the wares while her husband slept noisily on a narrow bench. Ai Dai accosted her politely, and the woman gave her voluble directions in a loud, friendly voice.
Remembering carefully every direction she followed the crooked street, the paving stones of which were worn into treacherous hollows by the hoofs of donkeys and the wheels of strident, heavy-laden wheelbarrows. After she had picked her way for half an hour the street ended without warning, and just beyond the open plain into which it led lay the sacred mountain, resting lazily in the hot noon sun. Ai Dai had never heard the word sublime or read of beauty, but her heart gave a sudden little jump and there was a queer ache in her chest. Swiftly her eyes sought the highest point, straining to catch the glimpse of a flagrant red wall, but the mountain defied her scrutiny of its secrets and flung back threatening heights and a glimmer of white marble.
The road, stretching plainly in front of her and faintly farther up the mountain, was dusty and deserted. Heat waves shimmered silently above it and distorted her view. The peasants, whose houses stood irregularly along the road, were wary of the hot touches of the sun's fingers and slept or conversed lazily, the men half naked and the women fluttering huge palm leaf fans. They stared curiously at Ai
Dai. It was seldom one saw a native woman walking up the mountain at this time of year. They usually went up during the pilgrimage season in February, their faces fixed and blue, and their tiny feet tapping the frozen ground like woodpeckers pecking at hard oak trees. But Ai Dai was unaware of their curious glances as well as of the intensity of the heat. Her thoughts were back at the little mud house in the village, where Nai Wren was. She did not feel the increasing strain as the mountain grew steeper nor hear the poignant calls of the mountain birds and the cooling murmur of the stream. The tiny hot hands and flushed little face of Nai Wren were the only things she was aware of, and their dry heat seemed to force her to go faster and yet faster. If only she were not too late. Quietly, desperately, she prayed, "Oh, Buddha, give me strength. Oh, angel of death, spare him a few more hours."
Long shadows of the age-old cedars fell across the road; long stretches of road lay behind and only one more flight of granite steps ahead. A mountain breeze was rocking the treetops to sleep, and the reflected heat from the stones was gratifying. Ai Dai's tiny misshapen feet no longer ached: they were dead, like pieces of heavy wood. Five miles of steps lay behind her and only one flight before. But her feet would not move. Frantically she looked around her. Tall rock walls rose perpendicularly on both sides with bunches of striped red-and-gold tiger lilies on their shoulders. Then she noticed a rusty, twisted chain which sagged heavily on tipsy iron posts. Slowly she crossed to it and began pulling herself up. Step by step she advanced, her arms straining, her face set, and all the while she prayed with her heart, "Oh, Buddha, give me strength. Oh, angel of death, spare him a few more hours "
There were three hundred steps in that last flight, and the last one was passed. To look back was to look down, down, and down to a tiny speck of a city already veiled in twilight's dusky scarf, but Ai Dai must not look back; she must still go ahead. The light mountain air, cold and pure as spring water, made one feel invigorated and Ai Dai walked almost easily toward the gleaming red wall.
The government had put the wall there to prevent the people from throwing themselves down to the barbed-tooth rocks below, but it had served rather as a means of locating the spot than as a preventative. Standing there on the edge of the world, where Confucius had stood so many years before, Ai Dai thought again of the priest's words:
"If you desire Nai Wren to live, you must go to the mountain and cast your body from the cliff in order that your cool and strong spirit
may enter into the body of your child and drive out the fever-spirit. The gods have so willed it, for the boy is more valuable in their sight than you."
She looked down, and a violent shudder shook her slender frame. Would she dare? The rocks, a thousand feet below, looked eager for her body, her blood, her crushed bones. She drew back, an intense nausea seizing her. Tiny hot hands and a little face with burning black eyes were before her just over the precipice. She stepped out into space with a prayer on her lips. "Oh, Buddha, may it not be too late."
When I Shall Die
When I shall come to die
Let me be young in spirit And may I have a song Of sheer, white happiness Within my heart!
Let me find still
A joy in lilting streams, And the smoothness of opaque pebbles In slow waters .
When I shall come to die
Let me be yet sensitive To the beauty of the music In the soft breathing of a tree. 0 God, when I shall come to die May I be young!
-Catherine Branch.
REVENGE
[Fir st Prize Story in Sigma Upsilon Short Story Contest]
MERCER 0. CLARK
THERE was a wild shriek, a blinding flash, a sickening roar and a trembling of the earth, followed by a rain of stones and dirt and glass and other forms of debris, and, most horrible to behold, arms, legs, heads and other portions of human bodies fell here and there around a yawning pit torn in the side of the hill by the bursting of a giant shell. Nearby the flames of a few burning timbers died as suddenly as they had sprung upon the horizon. These had lit the landscape, thereby forming a target for enemy gunners miles and miles across the valley and up on the hill far away.
For a distance of more than fifty miles the horizon was lit by the flare of firing cannon and the whole earth was trembling with the shock of bursting shells.
The dead and dying and wounded lay in heaps-the trenches were wet with human blood ; the fields so recently blooming with flowers and green with waving grass were trampled by thousands of feet and torn by countless bursting shells.
The trenches to the east of Suippes, which lies on the edge of the Plains of Chalons, a former training ground for the French before the war, ran through the village of Souain The town had been , not unlike many others in this border area , inhabited by a population consisting both of German and French peasants. But now the village lay in ruins. Through its very center, not even avoiding the spot where its beautiful church had stood, and on through the cemetery ran a maze of trenches. Not a building had been left, and four years of war in this sector had hardly left one stone upon another to show where once had been a sleepy little village nestling contentedly in the valley of the Champagne. Just east of the town lay what was known as "No Man's Land," and across it peered the ever-watchful eye of sentries trying to catch a glimpse of some movement behind the screen of camouflage shielding the enemy trenches.
In August, 1914, when the world was stunned by the news that a great war was about to be begun, great because of the nations involved in it and not because any one saw the ultimate proportions it would assume, Souain lay peaceful in the valley. Indolent men lay blinking in the shade of the trees that lined the courtyard adjoining the Cafe du Chalons. An old warrior, wearing a torn and dirty uniform, enlivened by a few drinks from a bottle of red liquid that sat on a
table at his elbow, purchased, it should be said, for a few pennies by one of his friends, was telling of his deeds of bravery and prowess on the field of battle. His friends were not listening. Many of his audience were asleep, and those who were awake were dreaming of the rich harvest to be reaped from the grapes now just beginning to ripen on the hillsides. The old fell ow had recounted his stories often before, and though they varied somewhat with each telling they were no longer interesting to those who knew him, as well as the narratoreven to the words of the general who had pinned the decoration on his uniform and kissed him on both cheeks. He would display his medal with its torn and faded ribbon and his friends would often drink to his exploits.
At the other end of the court, which joined the cafe, sat a group of women. They had finished their washing at the public washtrough, which stood in the middle of the street and through which ran a stream of water piped for miles from the hills. These women, subject to the will of their husbands and often supporting them by the labor of their hands and the sweat of their brow, knew their station well enough not to mingle with the men as they sprawled lazily along the benches by the side of the wall.
Besides the children, dirty little urchins, who played in the stream of water flowing from the wash-trough and disputing the right to so do with a flock of ducks and a couple of stubborn pigs, a third group sought shelter from the burning sun beneath the trees in the courtyard. This group was composed of the young men and girls of the village. These lads and lassies sat engaged in conversation which was dominated by two of the young men.
Rene Vermillion was of light build and dark complexion and the points of his moustache, which was just beginning to grow, were being trained to curl downward. He sat with his back to the wall, and his legs, which were draped in red trousers, were stretched out befo •re him. Beside him lay a cap of the same color as his trousers.
Henry Schuman sat with his back against a tree facing Rene. Henry was fair and of stout build. His young moustache of which he was, like most soldiers, very proud was trained to curl upwards after the German military fashion.
It happened that both boys were home from the army; it should be said-from the armies. One was serving under the Black Cross of Germany, while the other was enlisted under the Tricolor of France. Since very few of the inhabitants of Souain ever wandered far from
their own firesides they were always interested in listening to those who had been out in the world. The group of young people was especially interested in the conversation of the two soldiers.
Henry and Rene had been born in the little village, in fact their homes joined each other. The north wall of the home of Madame Vermillion was the south wall of the Schuman home. The boys were almost of the same age, they had attended the village school together, had loved and fought over the same girl, and had been called into military service at about the same time.
Apart from the group of women sat Rene's mother busily engaged in her knitting and sewing. Her grief at the loss of her husband, only a few short months after her marriage, had not lessened any by the passing of twenty years. Many of her friends had tried to draw her away from her sorrow and to bring once more to her lips that gay and happy laughter for which she had been known in her early life. Their efforts had failed to bring even a smile to her face. The widow was not more than fifty years old, but appeared older than some of her companions who were half as old again as she.
The young men and women, unmindful of the possible outcome of such an act, began questioning the two soldiers concerning the ability and strength of their respective armies. Each of the lads was eager to show that his knowledge of military tactics was superior to that of the other, and each thought his army better trained and manned than the other's.
The discussion was at first friendly, but soon each of the soldiers began to be peeved with the other and ere long a heated argument had started. The fact that there existed an old feud between them helped to excite their anger. Before those sitting near could have interfered, had they cared to do so , the two young men sprang to their feet eager to demonstrate their ability in the art of fist fighting if not in knowledge of military affairs.
The fight, however, was interrupted, just as it began, by the arrival before the Hotel d'Ville, across the street from the cafe, of an official car in which rode several officers, besides a chauffeur and an orderly.
The mayor of the village quickly arose from the bench, where he had been asleep, straightened out his long lean legs, donned his high hat and long-tail coat which lay on a nearby table, picked up his cane, and with a very important air, though quite nervous, crossed the street to the town hall. He approached the car with a salute, which was somewhat civilian, threw open the door of his office and invited his
guests to enter. The occupants of the car returned the salute of the chief officer of the town and after handing him several official looking papers ordered their chauffeur to proceed. The engine of their powerful motor roared and, leaving a cloud and a smell of burnt gasoline and oil behind, was soon out of sight down the road towards Suippes.
The mayor, after giving a farewell salute to the departing officers, withdrew to his office behind him to open and read the paper he held in his trembling hand. When he reappeared, after some moments, his wrinkled face was white and his form shook from the crown of his old silk hat to the soles of his dust-covered shoes.
The clerk, or mayor's secretary, was standing close by the door when the mayor emerged from it and stepped to his side as the old man stood on the well-worn stone that served as a door-step. After the exchange of a few words the clerk entered the building to return with a battered old drum strapped about his neck and carrying in his hands a pair of much used drum-sticks, while from his censure protruded the ends of the official papers. There was little need of the drum, for all the townspeople were gathered in the courtyard across the street and in their eagerness to learn the import of this message had abandoned their positions of ease and their arguments and were grouped about the archway leading into the street; even the little children , playing in the stream from the wash-trough, had ceased their play and gathered, in hushed silence, in a group near their elders.
The secretary sounded his drum loud and long and with an air of great importance ending with a flourish. He stuck the drumsticks in the red censure that encircled his waist and from it drew a paper bearing the seal of the President of France.
"Fellow countrymen," he began to read in a voice clear, though somewhat strained with excitement, "we face a great crisis. Our country is being invaded by an army of the German government, and we are forced to take up arnis to defend ourselves against the enemy. Your country needs the aid of every man, woman, boy and girl. Every man who is able to bear arms must hold himself in readiness to answer the call to enter the army, and all men now in service but on furlough are commanded to return to their regiments at once."
The people stood aghast, unable to speak or stir. Tears began to course down the cheeks of many of the women who knew what it would mean to them. Another war with Germany? Why, several of the older ones remembered a day like this forty-four years before,
when in 1870 the same. scene had been enacted in every village throughout the country !
The reading, however, was not over. The clerk was taking another paper in hand and calling attention to it. This paper was from the head of that province and stated that in all probability the line of warfare would run somewhere close to Souain. The network of trenches behind the town towards Suippes being an admirable place to establish a line of defense and the deep and comfortable dug-outs being large enough to accommodate an army held in reserve. The paper also advised all of the inhabitants of that section to make preparations to withdraw to some other area where they would be out of the zone of war. "And," concluded the clerk, "you are advised to be very careful with whom you associate and more careful about your expressions concerning the management of the affairs of war. If there are any subjects of the enemy country in our midst who desire to retire to their Fatherland we request you to do so at once, otherwise we might be forced to hold you under guard."
When the reading was finally over there was only a moment's silence and then all of the listeners began to talk at once. No one stopped to listen but each gesticulated wildly, and with voice rising higher and higher expressed his or her opinion of the news which had just come to them.
The eyes of the younger group turned towards the two young men who wore the uniforms of the belligerent nations. Each was conscious of the fact that they were the center of the gaze of the inhabitants of the village in which they had grown to young manhood.
Rene, with set mouth and stern face, turned toward his antagonist of a few minutes before and with strained voice said: "Henry, today we part. You going to your army and I to mine. May the bullet of the one of us never find a lodging place in the breast of the other. When this war is over may we return here to take up our lives again and to renew our friendship, which at the present may seem to be on the point of being severed." The young French soldier offered his hand as a token of friendship and farewell.
The German soldier, enjoying the discomfort the reading of the communication had caused the poor peasants, sneered at the proffered hand and said with a leer, "May we meet on the field of battle and may I have an opportunity of showing you the superiority of the bayonet training given our men over that of your army. I will return to this part of the country after the war, but it will then be a part of
Germany, and I will come as its overlord. This whole area will be given to my father and to me for the service we are about to render our country. In a few weeks your army will be beaten and suing for peace."
When he had finished he roughly elbowed a passage through the excited populace and made his way down the street to the house occupied by his father and two old servants.
The young Frenchman stood very straight and his face showed that he was struggling to control his emotions, but he turned on his heel and faced his mother who had instinctively drawn close to her boy as soon as the secretary had finished reading his communique. Together and without a word to each other or to their friends, mother and son left the courtyard arm in arm to seek the quiet of their own little house. They wished a few minutes alone before Rene would have to turn his back upon his native hamlet and make his way to join his regiment which he knew must already be on its way to the defense of Paris.
Just after dark of the same day Hans Schuman and his son Henry mounted to the seat of their light two-wheeled cart, and turning their horses' heads towards the east disappeared in the gloom of the gathering night.
* * * * * * *
The months dragged by into years. Souain had been levelled to the ground from the cross-fire of the guns of both armies The inhabitants had fled to the more quiet areas far behind the arena of war.
Madame Vermillion alone had refused to leave the zone of war in spite of the fact that she had been ordered to do so on many occasions . Without aid she had erected a small hut in a sheltered spot on a hillside and there through many battles she had dwelt in security. She had secured a gas mask from one of the soldiers, and though she carried it at all times found little use for it.
Rene Vermillion had written regularly to his mother and she had answered his letters until the French had been pushed back by the Germans, and it had been impossible for the letters to be delivered. Once the son had come back on furlough, but was unable to visit his mother because her hut at that time was surrounded by German outposts. He had managed to get into the front-line trenches and even visit the outpost of the French nearest the hut and by use of a borrowed field-glass see his mother working around the door yard. He could not cross the lines for fear of being shot as a spy, so went
back to his regiment knowing that his mother had not been aware that her son had been so near her. Rene had hoped that his outfit would some day be ordered to the lines near Suippes, where he could be near his mother. No such good fortune ever favored him.
* * * * * * *
Madame Vermillion, as she went about her work around the hut, sensed that a battle was impending. Her hut, at that time, was in German territory. She had seen day after day preparations for a great offensive being made. Large quantities of ammunition and other supplies had been brought into position and many divisions of troops were being brought up and held in reserve.
Late on the afternoon of the fourteenth of July, 1918, Madame looked up from her bowl of soup, which she had made from water and potatoes and which she was eating while seated on her door sill, to see three German officers approaching her door. In the dimness of the gathering twilight the woman did not recognize either of the men, but when the first, a lieutenant, spoke, she was startled to realize that the voice was that of Henry Schuman. She would not forget that voice. She would never forget his manner of speaking nor would she ever forget his farewell words spoken to her son as the two young men had stood face to face on that never-to-beforgotten day when the dreadful news of war had broken upon their peaceful village.
"Ah! Widow Vermillion," began the officer, "I see that you still cling to this bit of land as if you expect to till it after the war."
"Yes, Henry Schuman, I do--"
"Do not address me by my first name, woman, I am an officer in the army of his majesty, the Kaiser, and will have no one, especially an old woman of the enemy country, addressing me on such familiar terms."
The other officers could not understand the conversation, which was being carried on in French, but knew that Lieutenant Schuman was reprimanding this woman and since such was to their liking they interrupted the two by loud bursts of coarse laughter.
The French woman said nothing but shrugged her shoulders and stood as though struck dumb as she listened to the words of this boy whom she had known since his birth. Try not to do so as she may it was impossible for her to keep from believing what he said. Had
she not waited for four years for the Allies to win? Had she not seen them defeated time and again here in this sector?
For years she had hoped and prayed for victory, but it seemed to her now that her prayers and hopes had been in vain and that she was about to behold the def eat of the legions of France.
"Stop that infernal shrugging of your shoulders and get us something to eat and drink," commanded Henry. "We are hungry and thirsty, and the sooner you learn to obey and serve your superiors the better it will be for you."
The widow's spirit rebelled at such tones and at the commands of this officer with his overbearing manner, but she knew better than not obey. She proceeded to kindle a small fire on the hearth and to draw the dirty shades across the window so that the light might not be seen by the Allies and become a target for their gunners. She then began preparations for a meal.
"Mathilde," said Henry, using Madame Vermillion's given name, "it was said here in Souain that Rene Vermillion, your husband, made the best brands of wine of any one in this section of the country. I believe that I have heard that he taught you something of his art. You must surely have, hidden around here somewhere, some that you have made from the grapes that grow each year in these abandoned vineyards. Get us some of it now before we eat."
Madame left the hut and ascended to the loft above the room by means of a ladder nailed to the outside wall and soon returned with several bottles which she placed on the rough boards that served as a table.
The men began to drink greedily and by the time their meal was ready for the table they had about finished the contents of the bottles and were demanding more.
Henry, who had drunk more than his companions and who had a desire to taunt the old woman, found his tongue loosened and began to brag even more than was his custom. He spoke first in German and then in French so that his auditors would have the benefit of his conversation. The woman, having lived all of her life in this border country between France and Germany, knew enough of the German language to be able to understand practically all that was said by the officers. She soon caught the name of her son Rene mentioned and her interest was at once aroused.
"Lieutenant Schuman," she began, addressing Henry as he had commanded that she should, "you mention the name of my son. Do
you know anything about him? I haven't heard from him now for more than two years."
"Ah! I see that you still love and care for that worthless son. You will never hear from him nor will you ever see him again," replied young Schuman with a sense of delight at the hurt he knew his words must be causing the woman.
Madame's face did not change its expression nor did she by any outward sign show that her heart stood still and that the smoky room seemed to reel before her eyes. Only a deep sigh escaped her, which was not noticed by the drunken men.
"Yes," continued the lieutenant, "Rene Vermillion will never return to this little valley. You will remember how I said to him in parting that I wanted an opportunity to show him the superiority of the training of the German soliders over that given the French. I had that chance several months ago, when Rene and I met late one afternoon near Rheims. As I walked along near an old chateau I was surprised by the form of a French soldier rising up before me from behind a clump of bushes. To my surprise he called me by name and leaped over the hedge holding his rifle at 'guard.' It was then that I recognized my antagonist as Rene. I would have, for the sake of our childhood," lied Henry, "allowed him to go unmolested, but he taunted me and ordered me to prepare to defend myself. \Ve parried, and after a brief struggle I disarmed him and drove my bayonet through his body, leaving him pinned to the ground to die like the dog he was."
With a low moan the widow left the building, going out under the star-lit sky to cast herself down on the ground to weep in silence. No tears came from her eyes, but that was no sign that she did not suffer; tears would have relieved her suffering, as the cool rains bring relief to the parched earth in summer. How long she lay thus she did not know. In the distance the star-shells flared against the sky, hanging in the heavens as though suspended by an invisible thread, and then died away, leaving the darkness more pronounced by contrast. Overhead the low drone of heavily laden planes could be heard as they flew towards the enemy lines carrying their loads of death-dealing missiles. Along the road at the foot of the hill moved a continuous procession of German infantry going forward to take its place for the charge of the coming morning, when it would swarm across the stretch of waste land between the trenches and hurl itself with death-defying fury upon the enemy. Above the noise of all
the preparations for battle the widow, as she lay almost overcome with grief, could hear the laughter of the drunken officers as they made merry over the sorrow they had caused this poor defenseless woman.
Henry Schuman had failed to tell either the widow or his two companions of how it had taken three of them to dispatch her powerful son and then not until he had mortally wounded two of their number and had been stabbed in the back by Henry with the rifle he held in his hands.
After awhile the poor widow realized that the hut was quiet and thinking that her visitors had departed to take their places with their respective companions she prepared to go back to her home with the intention of seeking shelter in the small abri running back into the hillside from the rear of her one-room house. It was here she had always sought safety during a barrage.
Blindly she arose from her place on the earth and stumbling along made her way to the door of the hut. As she opened it and peered into the room she saw the three men sleeping in drunken stupor on the floor. The air was heavy with tobacco smoke and the fumes of wine, while the soldiers snored heavily almost with systematic rumble.
It was then that all of her mother love exerted itself and all of the feminine hatred of the enemy boiled within her heaving breast. Snatching a long knife from the table, which the men had used in cutting their bread, she raised it with the determination of driving it through the sleeping form of the man who had boastingly said he had killed her son. She raised her arm to strike, but her hand paused in the air. She was afraid that as she killed one of the men that his death struggles would arouse the others and thus thwart her desire to exterminate them all. She crept from the hut bent on another scheme for destroying those who had robbed her of all she had had on earth for which to live.
With a plan of vengeance in her mind the woman ascended to the loft above her hut and threw down several armfuls of the straw which was stored there. She then descended with a large can of kerosene oil which she had found in the road one morning after the soldiers had passed along the previous night.
The straw was scattered around the hut, which had been built of doors and loose planks and other pieces of wreckage from the homes of the little village, and after pouring the oil over the straw
and along the walls of the hut she set fire to it and retreated a short distance. The flames mounted high, and in a few minutes the whole shack was enveloped.
An observer, with his station high in the boughs of a tree, seeing a light burst into view on the horizon, and having no other target at which to fire, telephoned its location to the operator at the battery some miles distant. With a sharp command the battery commander ordered the crews to attention and men who had been asleep or smoking lazily nearby sprang to their posts.
"Open breach-load-close breach-ready !" barked the commanders of the different guns.
The gun-pointer gave a few commands to the men working the elevating and traversing instruments and the barrel of the long-range gun was in position.
"Ready," returned the gun-pointer. Hardly had he spoken when the command "Fire" rang out.
There was a blinding flash, followed by a deafening roar and a trembling of the earth. Men standing on tip-toe with mouths open, to prevent being jarred and to prevent the bursting of their eardrums, came to life once more and sprang to their pqsts to prepare for another charge.
The target became dimmer and dimmer and finally died. The range-finder and his observer held a brief conversation with the operator at the battery and the commander yelled "Cease firing."
The next night when the burying squad went forward, to bury the dead and locate any wounded that had been overlooked by the litter-bearers, smoke was still rising from the ruins of a hut on the hillside. A faint breeze stirred the coals and sparks flew upward. Near-by lay a mangled form in woman's clothes. As the men rolled her body in a blanket and dropped it into a shallow grave one of them remarked that strange as it might seem he had noticed that upon her face was a smile.
FRENCH TRANSLATION CONTEST
ANEW opportunity for French students to illustrate their power over la belle langue has been announced by the French Department of Westhampton College. The department has authorized THE MESSENGERto conduct a translation contest. A prize of ten dollars will be awarded to the student of either Westhampton or Richmond College who submits the best English translation of two sonnets by Jose-Maria De Heredia.
The translation may be written in the form of poetry or prose. All manuscripts must be submitted by April 15, 1928. They should be given to a member of THE MESSENGERstaff or to any one in the French Department in either college. Manuscripts must be accompanied by a sealed envelope, on the outside of which is a nom de plume and inside of which is the real name of the contestant.
LE COUREUR
Tel que Delphes l'a vu quand, Thymos le suivant, Il volait par le stade aux clameurs de la foule, Tel Ladas court encor sur le socle qu'il foule
D'un pied de bronze, svelte et plus vi£ que le vent.
Le bras tendu, l'ceil fixe et le torse en avant, Une sueur d'airain a son front perle et coule; On dirait que l'athlete a jailli hors du moule, Tandis que le sculpteur le fondait, tout vivant.
Il palpite, il £remit d'esperance et de fievre, Son flanc hal ete, l'air qu'il fend manque a sa levre
Et l'effort fait saillir ses muscles de metal;
L'irresistible elan de la course l'entraine
Et passant par-dessus son propre piedestal , Vers la palme et le but il va fuir dans l'arene.
ANTOINE ET CLEOPATRE
Tous deux ils regardaient, de la haute terrasse, L'Egypte s'endormir sous un ciel etouffant
Et le Fleuve , a travers le Delta noir qu'il fend, Vers Bubaste ou Sais rouler son onde grasse.
Et le Romain sentait sous la lourde cuirasse, Soldat captif ben;ant le sommeil d'un enfant, Ployer et defaillir sur son coeur triomphant
Le corps voluptueux que son etreinte embrasse.
Tournant sa tete pale entre ses cheveux bruns
Vers celui qu'enivraient d'invincibles parfums, Elle tendit sa bouche et ses prunelles claires;
Et sur elle courbe, l'ardent Imperator
Vit dans ses larges yeux etoiles de points d'or
Toute une mer immense ou fuyaient des galeres.
CARNIVAL
T. P. MATHEWSON
FOR two nights festivity had reigned throughout the city. For 'twas the season of Carnival in Salta, that brief period of three days when the Latin throws dignity and staid custom to the winds and indulges whole-heartedly in three nights of happy, riotous celebration. Such a contrast to the long period of abnegation which is to follow, for, as many of you know, Carnival is those three days which immediately preceeds the Lenten season. And many of these good people require all of the forty days in order to propitiate for the liberties they have taken with themselves during Carnival.
Tonight, the last night of Carnival, the climax to the holidays! The night had gotten under way in breezy fashion. Around and around the "plaza" or square the many floats and parades had passed. And such floats as these I have never seen before. Upon wagon, truck, or private car they had been constructed; a jungle scene with its human savages running to and fro, and monkeys hanging from the trees, an East Indian rajah enthroned with all his gorgeously costumed retinue fanning and salaaming before him, a bevy of Spanish senoritas, and one of the most beautiful and artistic was a little diamond-crowned girl who sat in a velvet-lined jewel case. An exquisite piece of work done in large scale replica.
The plaza was a blaze of varied-colored light and jammed with a carefree, riotously happy mob of Latins who were intent on draining their cup of pleasure to the last dreg. Throughout the crowd the vendors were selling favors, con£etti, serpentine, and a type of cheap effervescent perfume, put up in small bottles under pressure and with a trigger valve cap, which the people shot in a stream at any and everybody. The idea is to shoot the etherized perfume into the other's eyes so as to temporarily blind him or her. If it be a "her" then she is at your mercy for a brief moment until she recovers her eyesight. 'Tis your chance if you are quick enough!
Then there are the myriads of "rametes" or little bouquets of flowers which the people toss back and forth at each other. A passing senorita flings a "ramete" at you, you catch it, appreciate her verve and looks, and later as she again passes you attract her attention and toss one of your rametes, perhaps a kiss and a smile in her direction. But 'tis only the gay spirit of the occasion, as you do the same with many other senoritas during the evening. And so pass the hours
of the evening. There are street dances, individual's farces in which everyone participates.
Nine, ten, eleven o'clock. Que importa ? What matters? All the excitement, the girls' smiles you have seen, and those cocktails which somehow seem to get inside you in spite of all your blatant resolutions.
But ho ! the cathedral bells are striking midnight. Instantly the crowd takes on renewed spirit and movement. Open fly the windows of the second story of all the buildings about the square. Out of every window hangs someone holding a jar or other container full of water. As a float or crowd of merry makers pass under the windows they are struck by a deluge of water thrown from above. Among the crowd everyone now seems to be carrying a soda syphon and anybody is a target. How they all scurry for home! In the rush I notice the rajah's float is now a sad, beiraggled mass of decorations and its occupants hovering under parasols as their chauffeur hurries to get away from the plaza. By three minutes after the bells cease striking the plaza is nearly deserted, only a few of the vendors doing up their goods, a few befuddled sots and myself.
What a unique but very effective method for putting an abrupt end to the festivities. A squad of policemen march abreast down the deserted and darkened streets around the plaza.
Carnival over for another year !
I untangled myself from the strands of serpentine, shook the confetti off my clothes and started across the street to enter my hotel. I wasn't even wet, thanks to my skillful dodging of the syphons. Well, I had seen it through , had missed nothing. As I stepped up on the sidewalk to enter the hotel I paused as I heard a giggle overhead, a rattle and then SPLASH-I was all wet and . . . sober.
AS HE LIKED?
[Second Prize Story in Sigma Upsilon Short Story Contest]
DONALD R. MANN
THE Blue Eagle had at one time been the crack clipper ship of the Yankee deep-water fleet, but with the advent of steampropelled vessels she had become worthless and was discarded. Her stately masts and valuable trimmings were removed and the once famous and handsome ship was lowered to the position of a grimy and clumsy coal barge. She was part of a shipping fleet, headed by Captain Grayland, that transported coal along the Atlantic coast during the hazardous winter months when coastwise trade was left to only a few daring seamen.
At the Blue Eagle's helm was old Silas Tucker, who had been her skipper in her maiden days, and rather than see the old hulk go into the hands of an unappreciative steam sailor he remained at the head of the ship of his heart. His only duty was to keep the barge in the wake of Captain Grayland's tug as she was being towed. Silas would grasp the wheel determinedly and with staring eyes often dream of the days when he was master of the once-stately ship, insanely uttering orders to an unseen crew. His shipmate was Samuels, a shiftless seaman, who alternated at the helm with him.
The old vessel was towed by a slender steel cable that stretched nearly three hundred fathoms, and whipped and whistled with the howling gales and mountainous waves of the winter seas. The breaking of the cable would mean sure death for those aboard the barge because being left alone with the potential power of the heavy seas it would soon break to pieces and go to the bottom.
Captain Grayland was nervously pacing the bridge deck of the tug, looking back into the gathering gloom of the winter night. The long cable lengthened into a slender web as it stretched into the distance, and the barge showed as a dot in the white wake of the tug. The gathering darkness was shutting in, the lifting seas of the Atlantic towards the east increased, and the snow squalls of the rising winter gale blotted out all sight of the dependent vessel held by the web-like cable.
"That's a hard tow and a rough tow-we'll have trouble before the night is out if it gets much worse," said Grayland to his mate. "Had better blow to Tucker to veer out more line, and parcel up good for trouble. The wind is blowing nor'east, and it's going to be bad, mighty bad. I'm sorry we ever started out. This beach is bad
enough in an easterly, but to top it off we'll be dead lee shore all the way up to Portland."
The roar of the tug's siren was heard over the sea as her helm was pointed towards the east, and in response to the signal Silas steered the tug in the same fashion, swinging it steadily and sullenly until it headed directly into the rapidly rising storm. Old Silas stood at the wheel facing the icy wind, and his eyes were red and watery from the flying drift and the bitter cold. He held the wheel sturdily and gazed ahead to determine the tug's next move. When the tow straightened out again and the lines were snug, he relapsed into the mechanical movements of steering.
Now and then he would look aloft where at one time he saw skysails and topsails, and it seemed queer that he could only see black sky where should have shown the dull gleam of white canvas. But he was cold and benumbed and he remembered the Blue Eagle as she had once been. Memories of the past fluttered through his mind, and they seemed vivid and real and made him mutter strange orders to an imaginary crew.
In the dreary night his mind wandered back to the days when the Blue Eagle was not a decrepit and dirty coal barge with the stumps of her former masts sticking from the foul decks, to the days when she sailed grandly over the seven seas. Silas was half asleep, but he steered with a certain deliberateness as he dreamed. Before him he saw the days of his youth, he saw glimpses of sunlight on the sea, and strange foreign ports. The forms of men that he had once known so well loomed before him, and he muttered, "Northeast by east. Take a pull at that main topgallant brace-hold her helm to the wind." This came from lips that were cold and blue from the bitterness of the north Atlantic wind.
A heavy winter wave arose from the depths and smote the barge heavily. The wind was increasing. There was a distant roar of the siren over the sea. Silas was aroused for an instant-the tug was signalling for him to pay out more tow, but he relapsed once more into his dreams and the warning was unheeded. He .was dreaming that again he was captain of the Blue Eagle, and he was going out to sea. Little streams of water flowed from the old man's eyes and trickled down his cheeks to freeze on his grey beard. It was growing late. Midnight had come and he was to hold the helm until Samuels would come up from the forecastle to relieve him.
Samuels was lying below in his snug bunk waiting for Silas to call him, for it was past one o'clock and his turn at the wheel.
"What if he don't call me?" said Samuels to himself. "It's blame cold above deck, and I ain't goin' until he yells for me. To the devil with this life," he growled as he heard the tug's siren, "That's the cap'n blowin' for more line. It must be gettin' bad." Then he thought of the old pilot at the helm. "Let 'im stay up there. He's used to it. To biazes with a company who would send a man to sea with an old fool what's always talkin' of skys'ls and tops'ls aboard an old coal barge. Let 'im stay up there if he ain't got enough sense to call me."
Silas kept the hulk of the Blue Eagle in her course, and wondered why Samuels did not relieve him-but he could wait awhile yet, for a good seaman never anticipates relief.
"Keep her helm win'ward and draw her topsails taut-it's blowing a bit," shouted Silas to his dream crew. The gale was increasing and the tow-line groaned under the severe strain. The old barge was rolling and pitching in the troughs of the heavy waves, and Silas was momentarily aroused to right the ship. The old hull once more in the proper course he again dreamed of tropical seas and the Blue Eagle. Samuels in the forecastle knew he had overstayed his time three hours-but why worry? If the old man wanted him on deck he would have called him. "I better go up and see, anyhow. The old fool is steerin' badly and gettin' in the troughs," thought Samuels. He donned his boots and oilskins, took a long drink from a black bottle, and thumped up the ladder to the deck.
"I can hold the wheel for an hour or so and then find an excuse to go below to take a little nip and a smoke," thought Samuels. "I can get 'im to hold her helm. No use of me stayin' on deck and freezin' myself, let 'im do it-he's used to it."
On deck the flying spray froze and struck Samuels in the face with the pain of a thousand sharp needles, and the sharp wind fairly took his breath away. He could see nothing in the blackness of the night, and stumbling over a coil of rope he cursed loudly. Above the roar of the wind he heard Silas' voice at the wheel: "Steady at the helm-northeast by east."
"Pretty bad night, eh?" he yelled in the skipper's ear. This brought the skipper to his senses.
"Yes, pretty bad-the tug is blowing for more line, and her course is northeast by east. If you don't mind I'll go below and warm up a bit, and then I will take her helm again because this is a mighty fierce gale, and I know the ways of my ship," Silas said as he reluctantly gave the wheel to Samuels. "If you need me, call me."
Aboard the tug the mate stood by the hawser watching the taut cable. The sea was getting worse and the rolling barge placed a
heavy strain on the slender tow-line. Captain Grayland headed the tug into the teeth of the gale, and muttered a crude prayer.
"Lord, help those poor devils on the barge if that line breaks, and if this storm keeps up it can't possibly hold." And then to his mate he said, "Maty, it looks mighty bad for us, and if worse comes to worse it will be every man for himself."
Samuels stood at the helm of the old Blue Eagle, and was already tired of his short trick. The piercing blast cut through his clothes, and the icy slush was seeping through his boots. He was getting too uncomfortable and he signalled for Silas.
"Mr. Tucker, sir," he politely called down the companionway, "would you mind relieving me for a spell? I'd like to put some dry socks on. The course is due offshore and directly east."
"East offshore," replied Silas, as he took the wheel, and peered into the dimly lit binnacle.
Samuels went below laughing silently to himself. Turn out in this cold again? Well, not as he could see it. Too warm and snug below decks. He changed into dry clothes and took another drink from his bottle.
Old Silas soon forgot the duty shirker and resumed his dreams of tropical seas and the Blue Eagle in her maiden days. The cold began to numb him and he once more gave orders to his imaginary crew.
"We're becalmed. Spread all sail, and stand by for further orders. If a breeze blows up head her west by southwest," muttered Silas
Samuels below was enjoying his pipe. "I bet the old guy is takin' in his mains'ls, and dropping anchor by now," he grinned.
Old ships are quiet. New ones answer when straining tells of good wood. The seas that were spraying the bow were now brushing the port side of the old hull. The ship was slipping, sliding, falling down and down intq the trough of a gigantic wave. The faint roar of the distant siren told the horrible tale. The slender cable had snapped under twist and strain of the heavy seas, and the Blue Eagle was floundering.
"Good Lord," shouted Samuels as he leaped from the companionway. The old barge rose rapidly, rested a moment on the crest of a wave, and then plunged downward, causing a sickening sensation of falling through space. Once more it rose to the top of a wave, rested a moment as if tired from the long climb and then again plunged from dizzy heights.
"Here, you fool," shouted Silas to the worthless seaman, "take the wheel while I try to rig up some sort of a sail to keep us going, or we will be lost. Keep her out of the troughs and point her helm to
the shore. The only chance we ' ll have for our lives is to beach the ship."
Old wood is silent as if pondering upon its end, and goes the way of all ships without a murmur. Old Silas had managed to rig a pseudo-sail on the stumps of his beloved boat's former masts, and she was battling the waves and slowly making her way to the distant shore.
Samuels was at the wh eel panic-stricken in his cowardly fashion. The tug tried to come abreast the barge, but to no avail, as the mountainous waves prevented rescue. There was no use endangering the lives of those aboard the tug. The seas were unconquerable: and she signalled a mournful farewell to Silas.
Samuels left the helm and stumbled to the deck cabin. Silas felt the ship drop into the troughs once more, and he knew that the wheel had been faithlessly deserted. He once more righted the ship and then lashed the wheel in place.
As he turned back to his improvised sail he saw Samuel fumbling with the cat-lashings that held the heavy anchor.
"Stop! You fool," shouted Silas, "if that anchor drags we will never reach shore and my boat will break to pieces in this sea."
But it was too late. Samuels had cut through the lashings and the anchor plunged to the dark sea like a released monster. The coil of chain was paying out rapidly to the anchor as it sank to the depths. Suddenly an unearthly scream pierced the air. Silas knew what had happened. It was the oft repeated story of a careless sailor who had permitted his foot to get entangled in a loop of chain and was violently dragged overboard to his doom.
"No great loss," though Silas as he resumed his position at the wheel after making frantic efforts to get the ship underway in spite of the dragging anchor. The wind was now at the stern with the Blue Eagle's bow facing towards land. She was progressing slowly with the impediment, and Silas was growing cold and tired.
* * * * * *
The sun rose upon a tranquil sea, and the people in a small fishing village saw an old dismantled clipper ship of slender lines tossing upon a nearby reef. There was no sign of sailors abroad her and a coastguard cutter was dispatched to investigate the old derelict that had come during the night. They found an old man lashed to the wheel in an upright fashion, and he furnished a grim spectacle standing with his hands in a death grip upon the wheel, and covered with an entombing sheath of shining frozen spray.
THIS CHRISTIAN NATION
J. E. NETTLES
IT was a gala day in Rome! The crowd that packed to over-flowing the huge amphitheatre awaited with feverish expectancy the entrance into the arena of the two gladiators. From all the outlying regions, the rich and the poor, the noble and the humble had assembled at the capital of Caesar's mighty empire. Princes great in power, senators who guarded the destiny of the nation, warriors brave in battle, poets who would later sing the exploits of Julius Caesar's mighty Legions, fair women famed for their grace and charm-all who represented the learning and the power, the culture and the beauty of a mighty people nervously awaited the combat.
Finally, from the southern gate of the vast enclosure there entered a warrior clad in all the vestments of war. Almost simultaneously from the opposite end of the field advanced his adversary. The thousands, who had been anxiously awaiting this moment, rose from their seats and uttered a savage shout of joy that reverberated throughout the arena. Cries of "Claudius" echoed and rebounded from side to side of the stadium. Occasionally there was heard the name "Leo."
The gladiators met in the center of the arena. They unsheathed their swords. The battle was on ! While the crowd shouted encouragement, the combatants fought furiously. The sunlight, reflecting from their swords as they thrust and slashed, threw blinding beams of light into the stands.
Never were two contestants more evenly matched in size and skill. They fought valiantly with the rage of wild boars. Blood spurted from gashes inflicted by the cruel edge of the swords-and yet, the fury of their onslaught was unabated.
At last, with the mighty spring of a tiger that refuses to be denied his prey, Claudius broke through his opponent's defense, and with a swift and powerful stab pierced the heart of Leo.
As his foe lay prostrate at his feet, bathed in gore, Claudius turned towards the wildly cheering multitude and, removing his helmet, bowed. The haughty smile of the conqueror overspread his face. Flowers, torn from the bosoms of the fairest maidens in all Rome, lay at his feet. A heathen nation engaged m its heathen pursuits.
* * * * * * *
The Yankee Stadium in New York was thronged with people. Members of the President's cabinet, Senators and wealthy business
men rubbed shoulders with clerks, with barbers, and with laborers. The Senator's wife and the jade of the New York underworld awaited with equal interest the entrance of the heroes of the American people.
Typewriters clicked busily in newspaper offices throughout the land. In the composing rooms the sweaty printers were busily engaged in setting up the "extra" that would appear at the conclusion of the fight. Loud-mouthed announcers with megaphones pressed to their lips bellowed an account of the combat.
Simultaneously a thousand announcers spoke in a chorus that was heard from the Great Lakes to the Gulf of Mexico, from the Pacific to the turbulent Atlantic. Millions of American citizens listened with opened mouths and rapt attention to the reports that told of the progress of the battle.
A thousand announcers spoke. "Sharkey lands a left and a right, followed by two sharp jabs to Dempsey's right eye. There is a deep cut above Dempsey's eye and he is bleeding profusely. Dempsey looks like a stuck pig!" Several millions of voices united in a shout of enjoyment. Their lust for blood was aroused. Decorous business men, professional men, and street-hoodlums united in paying tribute to the valorous Sharkey.
Again the announcers bellowed in stentorian tones. "Dempsey is savagely pounding Sharkey's mid-section. Sharkey appears groggy. His mid-section is red from the incessant hammering." A tumult arose that drowned the noises of mighty cities. The millions were deliriously happy !
In the seventh round, the weary and battle-worn Sharkey succumbed to the battering of Dempsey, the hero of many hard-fought battles.
A Christian nation returned to its Christian pursuits !
BOOK REVIEWS
Jalna, by Mazo de la Roche. Boston: Little, Brown & Co.
$2.00. (An Atlantic Monthly Press Publication.)
It is a rare circumstance to find a prize novel which fully measures up to one's own literary measuring stick, but Miss Mazo de la Roche's Jalna, even though laboring under the difficulty of being the Atlantic Monthly' s $10,000 prize book, is certain to satisfy the cultural appetites of those who indulge in the gentle sport of reading better grade novels.
J alna is a queer sort of a book, written most convincingly . . . but we wonder if its characters really did live. They are utterly foreign to our own knowledge of characters on the contemporary scene. Perhaps it is in this point alone that our interest is caught from the very outset. We are living in a strange land with real people who actually breathe, talk, and say the things . . . we don't expect them to say. They have their own code of morals and naturally their fill of human passions.
And so we are shown in southern Ontario, the estate of Jalna, named after an Indian post where Captain Philip Whiteoak met his bride, Adeline Court. The former has long since died when our story opens and the latter is holding despotic sway over the household despite her close to a hundred winters . . . the household is composed of her two sons and six grandchildren. These people, eating hugely, drinking cheerfully, fighting, loving, making their own morals and sailing off grandly to their true and only church . . . theirs because Grandfather built it . . . are the robust company we are privileged to keep, even with a rueful glance over the shoulder at tremulous conventions.
We think that the best way to review this book is to set the most interesting characters before you, as it is chiefly a book of characters.
Let us first turn to Granny . . . the prospective centenarian, living only to see the huge celebration that will be held on her one hundredth birthday; she is a predatory old bird whose breast has been for a hundred years the roosting place of primal passions.
We shall skip over a few intervening members of the household until we come to Wakefield, age nine. Precocious far beyond his years, his naive formulae for obtaining those things which he wants cannot fail to be amusing even to the most casual reader.
After looking at the two most interesting characters 1t 1s necessary to say a little more about others of the family group. . . . Renny, the master of household. . . . Meg, far too jealous for her own good. . . . Piers and his wife, Pheasant. . . . Eden and his charming American wife, Alayne. . . . Finch, the duly christened, black sheep. . . . The two old men, Ernest and Nicholas, with their hobbies and pets . . . and finally Boney, a parrot, with an enviable knowledge of Indian and Hindoo curse words. These, with a few others, are the actors in the strange but human plot that is unfolded before us.
The novel is done with a quiet charm and simplicity along with a display of masterly convincingness . . . it is a fine work.
"A big book, my masters! A full canvas, the size of life."
Our Times, by Mark Sullivan. Charles Scribner's Sons. Two Vols. $10.00
Mark Sullivan, the well-known editor, has gone to a great deal of trouble to give the younger generation an insight into what the generation past was doing and thinking, and to give the older generation something to look back upon, possibly to chuckle over, and certainly something by which to recall "the good ale days."
We glanced through the pages of Our Times intensely interested in the different pursuits which engrossed the young man and woman of 1895, as differed from what the modern generation thinks about. The forms of amusement offered them seem to us to be quite insufficient to satisfy the demands of the modern thrill seekers . . . but of course the younger people at that time enjoyed themselves in their own way quite as much as the present day teens.
As for the book itself, it is made up largely of illustrations showing events of times past and giving lists of popular songs of the nineties which are prone to make the melody trip through the brain. The best plays of the years are listed with a comment on each and giving the outstanding members of the casts. We find a list of books that the people were reading and invading the libraries for . . . many of these books have stood the test of a quarter of a century and are still widely read.
In addition to this aspect of the scene, we are shown the violent political campaign the memorable picture of W. J. Bryan strutting the stage . . . the Spanish-American War . . . Teddy
Roosevelt . . . McKinley Lieutenant Hobson, the Lindbergh of 1900 . . . and others who stood out to make those years into a thrilling history.
Then we are allowed to glimpse the public school systems . . . the advertisements in the papers . . . women's and men's styles . . . we even remember an entire page of illustrations of whiskey, wine, and beer labels . . . the jokes that people laughed at in the nineties seem absurd to us as we read them in print, but we dare say that many of them are simply rehashed and used today . . . one cannot help laughing over the pictures of the choruses of that day when the baring of an ankle caused a great display of emotion . . . Weber and Fields, the comedy stars, were holding forth . . . the Floradora Sextette were quite the thing . . . all of these things and many others prove immensely interesting to one who wants to know what his fathers and mothers were applauding and enjoying.
It seems to us, however, that it is in the songs that we find the greatest interest. This book gives something of the history of many of the songs that are still sung . . . how many of us know that "On the Banks of the Wabash" was written by Theodore Dreiser's brother? We sing "Just a Song at Twilight," "Swanee River," "Old Kentucky Home" and others, but isn't it interesting to get the history of these? . . . for most of them have a unique background.
Our Times is divided into two volumes; the first is entitled "The Turn of the Century," which deals with the time from 1890-1900; the second is called "America Finding Herself," which takes us up through 1925. In this second volume, we find many things that all of us recall very clearly and it is a very fine thing to sit back and say, "Why I remember that so well . . . ."
We recommend these two volumes very highly, first, so as to get a difference between our pursuits and those of our direct predecessors; secondly, to recall some of the things that have happened in our own lives; thirdly, to watch the transition of thought, and lastly to find out what the people have been doing and thinking for the past thirty years.
H. G. KINCHELOE, Assistant Editor CARROLL T. TAYLOR, Asst. Bus Mgr.
LLOYD CASTER, Staff Artist
WESTHAMPTON COLLEGE
ELINOR PHYSIOC, Editor-in-Chief
CATHERINE BRANCH, Ass't Editor
MILDRED ANDERSON, Business Mgr.
EMERALD BRISTOW, Staff Artist
EDITORIAL
THE student bodies of both Richmond and Westhampton Colleges have voted on and approved the plan for the incorporation of The Web, THE MESSENGERand The Collegian under the name of "University Publications, Inc."
The plan provides for a Board of Publications to be composed of Presidents of the Student Government Associations of Richmond College, Westhampton College, and the Law School; two members from the faculty; one member from the student body of Richmond College, and one from the student body of Westhampton College; two alumni selected by President Boatwright; and the Treasurer of the University, e.x-ojjicio.
The University Publications Board will advise, administrate and supervise the work of the editors and business managers of the three publications. It will aid business managers in their work, and will provide an adequate check on their expenditures. A student who pays his budget fee is entitled to know what is done with his money.
The board will assure the careful and efficient management of the business of the three publications. There will be no more individual responsibility upon business managers, and there can be no misappropriation of student funds . If all plans materialize editors will receive credit for their work in the English Department and business managers in the Business Department.
THE MESSENGERis in favor of the plan. We believe that it will be helpful to the publications and advantageous to the students.
