Phoenix - April 1962

THE PHOENIX

t^itcrary Supptoment to tho

Oranye A Whitt*

april 1962

Volume 3

Number 2

Oran^ and White literary Supplement THE UNIVERSITY OF TENNESSEE Knoxville, Tennessee

contents editor

the day we drowned the cats

LAURA JEAN GOSS

Moline Rohinson ...................................

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THE WIDOW’S WALK L. Beatrice Hutzler .............. assistant editor

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CHUNG-SHIN Stephen S. N. Liu ________________________

CHICA COLEBANK

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AUGUST Moline Rohinson _______ ____________

section editors

JAMES A. SPARKS

literary

DON EVANS

art review and exposition

ANNE DEMPSTER

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MISERICORD nik ash ........................................................

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A FASCINATING PICTURE Linda Greene .......................... ................_

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SUMMER PASTORALE, PRELUDE AND FUGUE L. Beatrice Hutzler ............................... _

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STILL UFE Margaret Brabston ................... ......................._ staff

SALLY POPE KURT HARRIS

NUDITY Donovan Atchley ........................................................

RANDALL SHARP HAS BURNED HIS HARP James A. Sparks ................................................

SEA MONSTER Stephen S. N. Liu .............................. _

business manager

JOAN SHORT

Dr. Percy G. Adams, Dr. Dale G. Cleaver, E>r. James F. Davidson, Prof.

James E. Kalshoven, Mrs. Carolyn Mardn, Prof. Frank ThMnburg.

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LOVE Moline Robinson .............. .............................

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ALL ABOUT The Contributors .......

advisory board

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THE PHOENIX

april

1962

he Day We Drowned the Cats y 3Maline Mtobinson cool, cool, a smooth and heavy moon-scarred, pale-yellow night.

Cats were screaming scarlet. morning. pale-yellow light green after-dawn three mouths forty-eight claws in a basket clawed, then footsteps on street-stones over bubbling water scarlet claws quiet now

THE WroOW’S WALK by jL. Beatrice MMutzter Time is past; Phantom music wails through clouds.

You are lost; Cold moon silvers wild sea shrouds.

Ocean beats and surges; Echoes cry down the years.

Sea song, dirge of dirges.

Eternal strophe of tears!

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STILL LIFE

by Maryaret Brabston

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CHUNG-SHIN

by Stephen S.JS. M^in Chunig-Shin, my little brother, left us

And burned them in the graveyard.

After he had seen nine springs.

In order that my little brother

It was morning, a sunny day.

Might find his way home in the night.

The fields outside the window

We burned, too, a thousand paper dollars

Were green and full of joyful sparrows.

And golden coins so that he

My mother’s eyes were in a mist.

Might have something to spend

And a shadow hung on my father’s face

Even in an unknown world.

Like winter cloud.

Lastly my mother burned a paper kite.

For my brother’s favorite sport

Then came the black-dress priests

Was to fly a kite in the spring wind.

With ancient instrumenits of music.

Days and nights they stood before

I saw my mother dry her eyes

A row of haunting candle flames and sang

With a white handkerchief.

Their scriptures with never changing

I heard my father sigh in a low voice

Sleepy tune, as if they were asking

As he walked to and fro.

Big favors for my little brother

I watched the paper ashes dancing above

From the Chief God in High heaven.

The grass and cypress.

I smelled the fresh earth and herbs.

After my brother’s soul was saved

I felt the chilly evening air;

By the scriptures

And I knew we would go home and leave

And the blood of the mild sheep

My little brother here behind a stone

And the red-ear cocks.

On w'hioh we had written his date of birth.

My father brought from the village

And the day he left us—it was morning,

A paper carriage and horse.

A sunny day—the fields outside the window

With "a paper lantern and paper driver.

Were green and full of joyful sparrows.

V,

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Misericord by nih tBsh What great relief from sorrow is in pain, Simple and uncomplicated, since Being merely physical, it can wane Or grow, to bring about only a wiince.

Or stream of tears, or sob, or plea, or faint.

Depending on the magnitude of that Which has caused it. The felon or the saint Who suffers bodily, a near magnificat De misericordia and honor Receives of sympathetic, empathetic People (who can comprehend a sore That bleeds for them to see, and nurse the sick).

They kill horses with broken legs but let Live those whose spirits to break they saw fit.

AUGUST

by JMatine Mtobinson It was a yellow month and the hills were latent flesh that we alarmed with our unfamiliar touch.

Gingerly we slipp>ed through hollows of smooth rock, nibbling our way over gray earth mounds that swelled, resp>onding to the sun.

It was a dry month, but sensuous with heat, becoming alive in the sun.

We passed tenderly timid cones and depressions of the land, and with speculative wonder entered a dry cave, where we sat and watched wetness fall until puddles hung like melted puppets on strings of rain.

A FASCINATING PICTURE

by Ejind.€B Greene Linda’s eyes hurt. She flicked out the dim light with whidh buses encourage passengers not to read and closed her eyes, feeling slightly sick. The Soimd and the Fury flopped shut on her lap and she put it on the seat beside her. It’s a good book, she thought. How horrible it is, and how true. Realism.

Natilralism. Symbolism. Symbolism? She UTrinkled her forehead, a neatly typed half-formed sentence in her mind. “Through the subtle symbolism of his . . .”

Symbolism, of course. It was raining hard through the darkness. A woman behind her said, “Laws, look at that rain. My daughter, she’s married, she hates the rain. I tell her, honey, the good Lord, he don’t care if you husband is a preacher, it’s gonna rain, you like it or not.” She chuckled. The woman beside her said, “My—” “Lila, she’s my daughter,” interrupted the other, “she married Sammy three weeks after he come to town, two years ago February it was, they have a little girl; I told him, Sammy, you better watch out, I said, I don’t want to—” “I have a granddaughter myself,” said her neigh­ bor, “My-” “Do you now. How old’s she?”

“She’s just born, I just been there visiting, Nancy, this is her first. Lord, I remember my first, I have five, I can’t hardly believe Nancy, she’s the youngest, is having me my fifth grandchild. Charles—” Linda moved impatiently. The two women lowered their voices. Intermittently the threads of the conversation behind her pierced her mind, imterrupting a concen­ trated effort to impress the merits of Faulkner’s great­ ness in a brain which translated every piece of literature into a complicated critical effort.

“I was only 17 when I married myself, so I told Lily, I said, honey, you know what you want to do, of course Sam was a preacher, and a real nice fellow—” “He a Baptist?” said the other, and without waiting for the affirmative answer, “well, we’ve all of us al­ ways been Baptists: I told Nancy this morning, I said, sometimes the Lord’s all you got. Why when my husband died, that’s been ten year ago, we never had much, but then, honey, I had to trust in the Lord, he-” Linda’s impatience mingled with pity, and she tried to erase the impatience. She leaned her head fore­ ward on the headrest of the empty seat in front of her.

“I told him not to be a danm fool,” a boy across the. aisle said in a soft Southern voice.

“He can’t help it,” said the other wiith a Penn­ sylvania accent. “Those damn intellectuals are born that way.”

“So what does that make us non-intellectuals— geniuses?”

“Couldn’t say for you, but there’s no doubt about me. The products of broken homes are always geniuses.”

“There’s a fallacy there,” drawled the other.

“Geniuses—” “The hell with the fallacy. I’ll be a genius if I damn well please.”

“Sure. Just keep it on a non-intellectual plane, will you?”

“I’m an over-sexed genius. That makes me pretty non-intellectual.” They laughed.

Linda turned her head and looked at them. They both were in uniform. They looked back at her.

“Tired of reading?” said the Southerner pohtely.

“It gives me a headache,” Linda said.

“You got to bring a damn searchlight on these buses,” said the other. “You going far?”

“North Carolina.”

“Back to school?”

“Yes.” “We’re going to Fort Knox. An escape mecha­ nism.”

“What are you escaping?”

“The demands of the superego,” said the Northerner.

“That sounds pretty intellectual,” Linda said with a smile.

They grinned at her. “I’m Jack,” said the North­ erner. “He’s Dave.”

“Linda.”

“What’s your major, Linda?”

“English.”

“Sophomore?”

“Junior.”

“You’re well into the cult of the obscure then,” said Jack.

“Are Juniors obscure?”

“No, but what they study is,” Dave said.

“Specifically the modem poets. He hates them.

He’s an ignorant slob.”

“He’s a genius,” Dave said. Linda laughed.

“What are you?” Dave asked. Linda hesitated.

“You can choose on the basis of our relative good looks,” suggested Jack.

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“Unjust,” Dave said.

“Of course you think so. He’s ugly as hell, isn’t he?”

“Fifth amendment,” said Linda, who thought both boys nice looking.

“That’s insulting. But I won’t sulk. Sulk sulk sulk and into the rain ran. the short legged monster, sulking and ugly, it hated and it was ugly knowing and knowing—” “Won’t you have a cigarette?” said Jack to Linda.

“That was original,” Dave said proudly. “Did you notice the alliteration? Of course the symbolism is a bit subtle, but if I recite it again, or perhaps the rest of it—and in knowing-” “God, he thinks he’s the genius. Of course, these neurotic exhibitions will take him far.”

“I’m considering being a modern poet. How was that for a sjxMitaneous rhyme? Of course it’s not obscure enough, but with a little pdlish—” “Very profound,” Linda smiled.

“I detect the sarcasm of a modern poetry lover,” Dave said.

“Well, you have to realize there’s a point to their ’obscurity,’ if you want to call it that, said Linda.

“It’s a rather effective mechanism—” “There’s never a point to obscurity,” Dave said.

“I don’t think you realize,” Linda began.

“You’re a very pretty English major,” Jack inter­ rupted.

“Very,” said Dave sulkily.

There was a pause.

“Did you finish school?” Linda asked.

“No. We used to be students—” “Once,” interrupted Dave with a sigh, “I was a real turtle.”

“Shut up,” said Jack, seriously annoyed.

“Is that original?” Linda asked with a slight edge to her voice.

“Alice in Wonderland. She wontj^red as she wandered . . .”

“By god, I mean it.”

“Sorry,” Dave said, subdued. Linda looked over through the window.

“Nasty night, isn’t it,” said Jack.

“I think it’s a beautiful night,” Dave said.

Jack ignored him. “It’s a little depressing,” Linda agreed.

“But beautiful,” Dave insisted.

“Well, yes . . . the lights in the rain, the drops falling in the puddles, Linda said. The puddles look like holes—” “My holes were empty like a cup.

In every bole the sea came up.

Til it could come no more.” Linda joined with him in recking the apparent non-sequiter, remember­ ing it as a vague rhytW from her childhood. They looked pleased.

“That’s nice, isn’t it?” Dave said.

Linda hesitated. “Yes. It’s a little—” “Don’t say juvenile,” Dave implored.

“Well, Tennyson is, you know,” Linda said, nettled.

“A Child’s-” “Did you hear those characters carrying on behind you?” Jack said quickly.

Linda nodded. “I coiildn’t help k.”

Weren’t they wonderful?”

“Yes ...”

“You’re confusing the lady,” Dave said drily.

“Dammk Dave!”

“I don’t care if she’s a goddam intellectual as long as she’s sincere.”

“We’ll overlook the obvious mendacity of that remark and go on to something else,” Jack said lightly.

“Do you like Faulkner?” he asked Linda.

‘Tes,” she said stiffly.

“Look—I’m sorry. Dave practices what he preaches against sometimes.”

“It’s not the same and you know it,” Dave said.

“Stop making excuses for me, what the hell.’

“I know it’s not the same,” Jack said. “But boy, you can’t have it both ways, remember.”

‘Why does he call me an intellectual?” Linda asked.

“It’s a long story. You’re not though. You don’t know enough yet. Real intelleotuals have a lot of obscure remarks on the tops of their heads that they inflict on everybody at the first opportunky. By our definition. Unfortunately, intellectual is a much mis­ used word anymore. Now we can talk about some­ thing dse. I’m not like Dave. He either has to shut up or insult somebody.”

“Not always,” Dave said.

“Just pretty young ladies.”

“You heard him say he’s an oversexed genius,” Dave said, en^idently having recovered his good humor and taking it for granted that Linda had recovered hers. “Look at that watch band. Nothing but a phallic symbol.”

“His first mistake was psychology,” Jack said.

“As somebody once said—oh well.” He stopped.

This was the final insult to Linda. She knew that Dave felt she would misinterpret what he said and upset him, and that he knew Jack would jump at him for introducing a non-frivolous remark into the conversation. What did they think she was. Who did they think they were.

“Excuse me, I have a terrible headache, she said sweetly.

Indignant and disturbed, she leaned back in the far comer of her seat. Settling Eaulkner on her lap, dosing her mind to the conversation that continued behind her. She went on, “Faulkner’s fascinating pic­ ture of the Southern culture . . .”

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SUMMER PASTORALE, PRELUDE AND FUGUE hy L. Beatrice MMatsier Prelude of the afternoon When occasional sleepy cricket sings, Practicing his tenor tune In harmony with cicada wings.

At the time of sun’s last lighting, Red and purple in the west.

The hour of night hawk’s watchful kiting.

When cow seeks calf, brood hen her nest.

And through the merging shadows creep.

Stealthy quiet on furry pad.

Creatures hunting when day’s asleep And land’s in secret darkness clad.

When nervous bat’s testing chitter Flits about through evening air.

Replacing sound of birds’ last twitter

Drowsily murmurous here ,and there, ’Tis the time that fugue begins.

Melodies moving in counterpoint.

Time of rustling tree-song winds.

When toads their raucous voices vaimt While katydids strum soft guitars.

And bullfrog basso tuba sounds; Dog cornet wails out at stars As lowing bull French horn resounds.

Then it is, when tree’s black-patterned Against star-sequined lavender sky And cat’s green eye is jack-o-lanterned While hunting owls fly feathery by.

That waking cricket joins the thtong Of night time voices polyphonic And dares to raise his itiny song In night’s crescending glad harmonic.

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NUDITY hy Mtonnrtiti j\ichtey

There were three of us. Me, Joe, and Jerry. Just us and the car agaiiist the world. A real bunch of heroes. Me and Jerry were in college. Both of us liked to have a good time. All three of us, as a matter of fact. But I guess Jerry was just naturally a little more serious minded. Anyway, the night air was clear and fresh, and I just had to go somewhere.

I hadn’t wanted to come alone, so I had talked them into coming with me.

When we had gotten out of town a little ways, I just sort of naturally speeded up a little bit. I was feeling kind of radical, so I began to speed it up a little bit more. The needle pointed to eighty in a hurry. Then ninety. Somewhere between ninety and ninety-five, Jerry began to get nervous. “Be careful.

Bill,” said Jerry. That was Jerry. Me and Joe laughed. Just for the hell of it, I op>ened it up.' I watched Jerry’s face. Man, talk about fear! But that was Jerry. Always chicken. Sometimes, when Jerry got ahold of a little beer, you might see a small show of guts. But even then it never lasted. “Remember the time Jerry got a little tight and hollered at that cop? I never saw anything to beat that,” I said. “You weren’t there, Joe, so let me tell you about it. We’d been to a party, and Jerry was feeling pretty good.

Anyway, here was tough-guy Jerry hollerin’ at this cop one minute, thinking he wouldn’t know who it was, and the next minute apologizing to him and crying like a baby!” Joe laughed and looked at Jerry.

Jerry wasn’t paying any attention. I guess he was too busy watching the needle and the road.

Well, anyway, that’s how it was going. I had the thing over a hundred by then. Man, we were really flying! Then, I guess abbUt three hundred yards ahead, I saw this old Buick. Just barely movin’.

Without thinking about it, sort of automatically, I started around the guy. Now it was a four-lane high­ way, and he was on the inside lane, so I had to pass him on the right. And on a curve, too. I thought that maybe I shouldn’t try it, but I remember feeling that if I didn’t go ahead and do it—without hesitating

even a moment—my whole day would be spoiled.

Anyway, the next instant I was blowing my horn and starting around him. Jerry told me to be care­ ful. Even Joe told me to watch out. I just grinned and gave it all there’was. Then, halfway around the curve, the Buick swerved in toward me. Just a hair, not enough to make any difference. But something gave me away. Maybe I just lost my nerve. Anyway, my foot hit the brake. There must have been some­ thing slick on the road, because when I tried to grip the vvheel tighter, the whole back end started to spin around, and I felt the car go out of control. God I was scared! Pushing myself back against the seat as hard as I could, I prayed to God that the twisting would stop. Even if I had to die, let it stop! I was so helpless! I knew that the car was spinning all the way across the other side of the highway. I felt like the car had turned all the way over and come right side up again. But I knew it hadn’t. It was like a dream! Then we hit something. I felt no pain; nothinig but a funny kind of relief that it was all over. My mind seemed to go blank. Sometime later, I felt my eyes open for an instant, and I saw Joe and Jerry. The first thing I saw was one of Jerry’s legs, twisted all the way around next to the seat, just like it didn’t belong to Jerry at all. God, it was horrible!

Jerry and Joe‘were all mixed together with the metal, so that the whole thing looked like a sort of junk yard, with battered human parts mixed around to­ gether with battered machine parts. And the blood!

Jerry’s face was a hollow shell of spurting blood. It looked as if there had never been a face there at all.

And Joe! His neck was broken, and his head was literally laying on his shoulder. Oh my God, the blood! After just a glimpvse at them I gave up and fainted. I remember wanting* to die.

Then I woke up. I didn’t know how long I had been unconscious. 1 was afraid to open my eyes. Yet I felt strangely warm and comfortable. When I did open my eyes, I was looking straight at the rising sun. I lay on my back, wondering what the hell had happened. I ought to have been dead or pretty near

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coming after me. I knew that they thought I was a maniac or something. But they hadn’t reacted quite like I had expected them to. The girl hadn’t screamed, she had only pointed her finger at me. And her expression had been one of curiosity, not one of fear and disgust. I kept looking at the car for a momerrt. They were just sitting there, looking at where I had been and talking excitedly.

it, but I felt pretty good. Then I realized that I wasn’t in the car! Heaven help me, had it aJl been a dream? But then wihy was I lying on the ground?

I began to look around. As far as I could tell, I was lying in a grain field. Then I realized what must have happened. I had somehow been thrown dear from the wreck. But when I got to my feet, I knew this couldn’t be true, because the road was several hundred feet away. Then I noticed something else! All my clothes were gone! My money, my watch, everything! I had been robbed! I thought about the kind of guy who would strip and rob a man who’d been in an accident. God, he must have been real holy! But I had no reason to gripe. I had been lucky. I was still alive. Then I thought about Jerry and Joe. They were dead. They had to be.

No one could be tom to pieces like they had been and live. And it was all my fault! They hadn’t even wanted to come, and now they were dead. And I was responsible!

I didn’t know what to do. After walking around for a little while, I went back to the grain field.

Then, over oh the other side of the field, sort of up on a rise, I saw a house. It was almost hidden by some trees. A pretty nice-looking little place, as country houses go. Not really knowing what I in­ tended to do, I began to walk toward it. When I drew nearer, I saw that there were some people sitting on the porch. They seemed to be talking among themselves. My luck was still with me. They hadn’t seen me. Scampering from one tree to another, I got as close to the house as I thought I could without being seen. Then I was content to watch and think for awhile. As far as I could tell, there were four p>eople sitting on the porch. Two women on one side, and two men on the other. I had just started to think about my chances of sneaking into the house and making off with some clothes, when suddenly one of the men got up and began to walk about. To my amazement, I saw that the man was in exactly the same state as myself. He wore no clothes what­ soever. Then he turned his face toward me for the first time. Feeling that I must be losing my mind, I noticed that the man looked like Joe. I looked harder, and I saw that it was Joe! Hardly believing my.eyes, I began to run toward the house, shouting his name at the top of my voice. Seeing me, he hollered back and waved to me. His friend also stood and waved at me. It was Jerry! Running up the step« toward them, I couldn’t help laughing at how stupid they looked standing there without their clothes on. It seems we had all been robbed!

I looked toward the road again. That damn bastard of a thief had dragged me out here and left me to die. Instinctively I began walking toward where I thought the wreck had happ>ened. The car wasn’t in sight. I hadn’t really expected it to be.

They had surely towed it off last night. I walked on up to the road, looking for someone to help me.

There weren’t any buildings or houses around though, and no cars had passed since I had come up to the road. I looked around for where I had crashed. A little piece away from where I stood, there was a broken telephone pole. Walking over toward it, I saw that there were pieces of broken glass sticking in it and scattered around under it. This was where it had happened.

As my head began to clear, I began to think more logically. Here I am, I thought to myself, standing by the side of the road, without any clothes on.

What’ll happen when someone comes along? More than likely they’ll take one look at me and drive off screaming for a cop. Even if they give me time to explain, they won’t believe me. I don’t look' like I’ve been in a wreck at all. I almost wish I hadn’t been so lucky.

I grasped their hands and told them how- glad I was to see them.' How I had never expected to see them again. How I had thought they were dead.

They both laughed. Then they sat down and looked at me with peculiar expressions on their faces. When I asked them why they had laughed, they wouldn’t tell me. Then I remembered the two women. They were sitting only a few yards from us. I felt myself blush a little at my nudity. But the women didn’t seem to 'he paying any attention to us. I spoke to one of them. She seemed not to hear me. She kept on staring dreamily at the grain field. I looked imcertainly at my friends. Jerry began to laugh. But the woman didn’t laugh. The grain field rustled in the wind. The sun shone down. Jerry laughed louder. Joe laughed. And then we all laughed.

Then I heard a car coming. I hesitated a second, not knowing whether to mn or not. It just wouldn’t do to have someone see me like this. I couldn’t make up my mind. Finally I started to run for cover. But I had waited too long. When I had gone only a short distance off the road, the car slowed to a stop alongside of me. A girl in the back pointed her finger at me and said, “Look at that!’’ I ran back into the trees as fast as I could go. When I had gone a pretty good ways, I turned around and looked at the car. The people were still sitting in it. They weren’t

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Randall Sharp Has Burned His Harp hff James A. Sparks

Randall Sharp has burned his harp, Has turned out a lark from the nearby tree, Has late unwired his telephone.

And is not as known as he used to be.

Unlordly he, that once mistook A spring day for the sight of GOD, Does now but minister a nod From o’er the edge of some GREAT BOOK Which sits enthroned upon his mind As he on straight-backed chair seems crowned.

What pedagogue holds Randall rapt And does his disposition warp?

Soipe there are who will insist He seeks the image of a harp.

V.

LOVE

by Maline Mtobinson What are you looking for, calm violet thrush,

m

'

.......—"

Thrusting your head about in the leaves so?

^

Ijove is somewhere behind you.

In the weeds below; The mockingbird sings in a tall bush.

SEA-MONS!TER

by Stephen S.JV. L,iu On the river of Yang-Tze once appeared A huge sea-monster of ashy color; He thought himself superior to all Our crocodile-shaped ferryboats And our bamboo-roofed junks.

As a country lad, I did not appreciate The ominous way that monster smoked; Besides, our sleeping hills and castles Were greatly troubled by his Raucous cries.

And a few years later.

My gray-haired mother stood by the river Waving her handkerchief at me; I watched, watched, watched Till the morning fog of June Had wrapped the shore and her Diminishing body away.

And it was the sea-monster That swallowed me deep, deep Into his steel belly; And then he smoked, he roared, he rushed Toward the sea, and would never Bear me home again.

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ALL ABOLT Vhe t^oniribiMtors

WE INVITE YOU TO VISIT OUR PAPER BACK BOOK DEPARTMENT

Maline Robinson

Miss Robinson was born in Shady Valley, Ten­ nessee. She is a senior in the College of Liberal Arts, and is studying art and English.

SEVERAL HUNDRED TITLES ARE AVAILABLE FROM . . .

L. Beatrice Hutzler

DOUBLEDAY PENGUIN-PELICAN GROVE PRESS MERIDIAN BANTAM COMPASS SIGNET-MENTOR POCKET BOOKS FAWCETT DELL HARVEST VINTAGE

Miss Hutzler was born in Cincinnati, Ohio but has spent most of her life in the State of Kentucky, which she claims “as my emotional home, mostly because my antecedents pioneered there.” Bea is a graduate student in the Zoology Department on “The Hill.”

Stephen Liu

Stephen Liu was born in Tu-Ling, a little village on the Yang-Tze River, in China. He studied Chinese literature at Nanking University. He came to America in 1952. Since 1960, he has been a graduate student in English at the University of Ten­ nessee.

We will be glad to Special Order any

Linda Greene

titles not in stock

A pen name.

NIK

UNIVERSITY SUPPLY STORE

ash

nik ash is a student in the College of Liberal Arts. She is majoring in English and minoring in Erench; she will receive her A.B. Degree in August.

James A. Sparks

Though Mr. Sparks has lived in several cities in North Carolina, he claims Nashville, Tennessee as his home. He is presently a student in the College of Liberal Arts, majoring in Speech and Theatre.

Submit contributions to: Donovan Atchley

LAURA JEAN GOSS, Editor

Donovan is a senior in the College of Liberal Arts, and is from here in Knoxville.

The Phoenix Box 509 821 Temple Ave. Knoxville, Tennessee

Don Evans

Last, but not by any means least, Don, our es­ teemed Art Editor, hails from McMinnville, Tennes­ see. He is a senior in Liberal Arts, and, as one might guess, he is majoring in oil painting.

Please 'type, double-spaced, all material contributed and include a personal sketch telling major, hometown, etc.

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