Business Manager Assistant Editor Assistant Editor
LUTHER WELLS •
WESTHAMPTON COLLEGE
DOROTHY GWALTNEY
VIRGINIA BECK •
ELIZABETH GILL
JOHNNIE ADAMS Staff Artist
Editor-in-Chief
Business Manager
Assistant Editor
Assistant Editor
THE MESSENGER is published every month from October to Jme by the students of the University of Richmond. Contributions are welcomed from all members of the student body and from the alumni. Manuscripts not found available for publication will be returned. Subscription rates are Two Dollars per year; single copies Thirty-five Cents. All business communications should be addressed to the Business Managers. Entered as second-class matter in the postoffice at the University of Richmond.
Members Intercollegiate Press Association of f/irginia
EDITORIALS
UNIVERSITY which has acquired prestige and pre-eminence in the University world has indeed the right to be proud. The ability to achieve is highly commendable-but the true test is in continuous achievement. One cannot rest on one's oars and still
keep in the race.
Some of the faculty of this institution and a few enterprising members of the student bodies of Richmond and Westhampton Colleges feel the need of developing and unfolding the now invisible geniuses, patrons and critical onlookers who they feel sure are lost somewhere in the present atomic disarray of matter. Why do we not have classes in the fine arts?
Some students feel an illimitable, insatiable longing for an education; some have a similar desire, rather unintensi-
Sanguinary dictums and soft soap replies. What a profound collection of slush! Things in, about, and around this institution have come to a head-a head with one eye cocked and one jaw protruding where a palavering tongue has been stuck into it.
A lons, en/ant-and all of that. 0 ff with their heads I And let us look this situation as much in the face as we can stand of it. The bodyless head has false teeth, a transformation, a feather brain, and eyes that were open, but could not see. What's the use of letting it die now? Glue it back on the body and let it wobble around for another year. Cut it off, look at it, glue it back on then, and let it go for another year, and another, and another. Ignorance is immortal.
TABLE of CONTENTS
Sands, W. F. Fidler
The Baggage Car, Mary Lucille Saunders
Meditations Laiteuses, Cuthbert Whoosis
The Return-Johnnie Adams
Decade, J. Donald De Vilbiss
Campus, T. J. Heston
A Song of the Circus, Geo. W. Cutler, Jr.
Blue Ribbon Baby, John J. Sche1·er
Gadsby's, M. Louise Dinwiddie
Once Upon a Time, Margaret Lowe
revolutioning that we are forgetting what we ourselves can do to bring about-not a revolution, but a renaissance. We become fighting mad over la danse, but what of all else?
Certainly let us dance, let us all dance, but let us also make as an integral part of the scheme against Things As They Are, a revival of culture, of art, of writing, of music, and those things not commonly classed under the head of "social relations."
We've crossed the Rubicon, we've dog-paddled back with water wings, we've met, we've talked, we've received replies • but what have we done? We're so busy fied, while others actually believe that on the receipt of a degree, won with no overshare of qualitative credits, their education is quite complete. The proverbial "extracurricular activities" are insignificant-a complete waste of energy and industry, for from this burdensome work there is no manifestation of a return. Yet, how many of us, awakening to a world of literature, music or the generalized arts, could find our
way about?
-D. J. G.
Sands
A strand the sea engraves, That, struggling with the waves, Is carved and fretted in bas-relief; What tales beyond belief! Whispered, perhaps, on some coral reef, Or roared in a thousand caves.
What mystery this dark sea hides, Written on sands by shifting tides! The tale of many a bloody deed, Passions formed in human greed, Which feeble man can never read In the sands where the dark sea glides.
What romance may be written there! Of a princess, perhaps, and brave corsair? Perhaps, of a Northland chieftain bold, Faring forth in quest of gold; What tales of these may not be told? In sands of the sea laid bare?
Such tales are sung by nature's bard; By mortal lips there would be marred ; Yet men may find in a shifting sand Something of beauty-a beauty more grand Than the souls of men who can understsandThe finite beauty of Infinite God.
-W. F. Fidler.
The Baggage Car
By MARY LUCILLE SAUNDERS
HERE were the flickering lights of Shiu Chow in the distance, as the cool mantle of the night fell close, and the sparks from the engine were falling stars through the dark, blue haze. Monstrous black shadows of the mountains rose against the silver and ebony coverlet of the sky. The train was leisurely rolling towards the warped, old station house, crushed against the mountain side.
The journey up had been tedious and boring, more dangerou s than usual in this time of warfare, but nevertheless signally untroubled. The rushing overflow of an enraged race did not disturb the spiritless calm of my companions. We were all tired, more from fidgeting than actual exertion, and I found that I was one of the many passengers who feel no nervous impulse to get ready before the laboring train finally arrived.
The baggage car was crowded The seats in the coaches were hard benches that were too high to rest your feet on the dirty floor and too low to scrape your shoes back and forth. Besides the coaches were always a medley of chickens and other animals that their fussy owners had chosen to bring along. Since there were no partitions between the benches, your companions would likely be the fat amah who was vainly striving to silence the whimpering infant and keep the baby's pet dog away from your skirts , or the magistrate's two young heroes of fourteen, whose main ambition was to determine which cricket made the most noise.
No wonder then that those who could, planted their luggage in the baggage car and planned to have the best of impossible times during the trying run from Canton. This art lay in the science of managing to spread your paraphernalia over the greater part of the filthy car, and foolishly attempting to budge the baggage-master's white cat. Frankly, I will admit that I supposed the skinny creature was black, until it rubbed its fur against my white stockings.
By the time my trunk had been placed so that it was a protection against the stinging cinders that whirled in the open door and my two suitcases were spread out around me, forming a most unsightly defense, I was fully
exhausted and lay down on my cot to spend the rest of the day in looking and wondering whether the soldiers had pillaged the compound or not.
Now as I sleepily lay on my cot after having dozed most of the afternoon, I was rather regretting my having to leave the baggage car. My surroundings would have been repulsive to those chiding ones who marvel that missionaries do not die from possible connection with such uncleanliness. The coaches are usually short and wide, cumbersome things, and this baggage car was exceedingly so. The crisp, fresh winds from the mountains stole through the cracks and explored through my clothes to the skin as I watched the different lanterns go out under the tantalizing lash of the wind. There were pieces of old papers showing out from under the heavy film of dust that adorned the splintery sides of the car, and one ancient lantern was hanging from the top; a lantern that had been brilliant with the colors of a happy painter when it was put up for the engineer's young boy, a lantern that was now gray and dark as the life of the sightless artista smoke-covered object which gave the light of a single candle.
Lying against the wall in the furthermost corner were three officers of the army, going to the front for extensive duty. The creased faces of two were vacant as they slept off the cataleptic stupor of opium, mouths drooping open and arms in awkward, strained positions. The third, a handsome chap of eighteen or nineteen, was eagerly blowing on the coals as he rolled his opium. Pushing the tiny wad in his pipe, he held it over the fire until there was a slight sizzling. Hovering close to his lips was the purple smoke of the drug, as he inhaled long, sucking drafts from the pipe. A fleeting mood of dreams lit up his eyes as the drug swiftly began its work.
The voices of my nearest companions sent my thoughts flying. I had never seen them before, but a day's close association had done much. The youngest wife of the general was positive that the first wife should not be allowed to forget her increasing old age and was most provoked when the elder woman asserted the authority of an outraged mother-in-law. Their high, thin voices had weakened and one no longer heard shrieking retorts cutting the heated atmosphere. Their voices reached unattainable heights or broke in amusing little wheezes. The Chinese
--
woman's chief weapon was gone; no longer could she harangue her companion until both were weak. I was reminded of a Punch and Judy show, only in this case the manager's cat had his tongue. Above the smoky glow that their paper lantern gave were the two silhouettes, one long, with sharp nose and jutting chin, the other round and pretty in the reflection that showed me a shamelessly lifted nose and teasing laugh hiding in the black eyes. Their arms cast strange, fantastic, swiftly moving shadows on the still forms of the soldiers, and occasionally, one would open her mouth wide after the peculiar fashion of one to whom the sneeze is fast becoming a torture.
I wish I could have joined the little group at the other end of the car. There was a little coal stove about which they all were gathered. The children were quiet as they listened to the story that their mother was telling them. Her low voice did not disturb others who were trying to sleep or read. The tired faces of her three little boys were changing mirrors of passing pictures she painted for them.
"Tomorrow, dear ones, you will see splendid sights for yourself, for it is the day of the Dragon Boat Festival. W e1will get up in the cold arms of dawn and go to the steep banks of the North River. There will be many smpans and other boats on the swift rapids that go splashing by the rocks. The young boatmen of the vil_lage will hold dangerous races and the long, slender dragon boats will barely miss splintering their sides against the cutting stones. Then when the sun grows tired, there comes the
great event-the race between the two largest and speediest of the many dragon-boats. The river waters will be swept of all boats but these two when the-"
The train jolted into the station and all the Chinese in the car promptly staged a mad scramble. All thoughts of the story gone, the mother and her boys were hurriedly leaving me in the midst of the medley that was the baggage car. The general's two wives were reconciled as they smilingly met the military escort from their husband. Even the three officers were getting up rather uncertainly.
An appalling mob of coolies essayed to carry off my baggage, against my will, and it was only the persuasive tongue of the compound coolie, who had come to meet me, that prevented my luggage from being divided among the strongest of the coolies who were willing to fight to keep what they had grasped. Quickly he chose two of the many to help him, and at his determined shake of the head, the rest left, congratulating the fortunate ones and joking among themselves at their misfortune.
I dragged behind the coolie as he directed his helpers up the short climb that led to the compound. They would all be glad to see me-my missionary companions-and would want to hear the news from Canton. Yes, I would soon be with my circle of friends, who were so kind and helpful ; but I was leaving a passing friend, too. The lonely baggage car loomed up strangely alive against the falling curtain of darkness as I neared the compound and home.
Inevitability
I hear the phantom tread Of yesterday's celebrities
As they glide easily through the dusty corridors of the pa st. In and out, in and out, They slowly wind around Returning again and again With a little more dust
On their already time-worn faces.
One by one, they join the silent mob Which has been forgotten at last, Lost in the weary shuffie of new feet. Now their bones rest in peace
Only a chosen few of the aged idols Wend their way dimly through the brilliant corridor of the present.
-Hattie Habel.
Meditations Laiteuses
By CUTHBERT WHOOSIS
[Few students now at the University of Richmond know the author of this sketch personally. Some upperclassmen, however, may have made his acquaintance through these pages, as several of his articles appeared in THE MESSENGERduring 1925 and 1926. Mr. Whoosis had been a soldier in the late World War, and had seen service in France. Shortly after the cessation of activities, due to old wounds and the effect of poison gas, Mr. Whoosis began to experience much trouble with his lungs. In the intervals of better health, he managed to attend several sessions at Richmond College. THE MESSENGERof May, 1928, carried an account of Mr. Whoosis' death-after a battle of almost nine years, he laid down his arms. The account of his death was sent us by Mr. Leslie L. Jones, who was at his bedside when the end came. We are also indebted to Mr. Jones, sometime student at this institution, for this present post-humorous work of Mr. Whoosis found among his personal effects about a · year ago.]
ARCO POLO is speaking. He is broadcasting from the basement of a Genoese prison on time wave of six hundred and thirty years. (Yes, Mr. Babson, 1297 is the date.) And, as usual, he is discoursing about and about his ancient friend the Grand Khan. "It is understood," says Polo, "that his majesty keeps up a stud of about ten thousand horses and mares which are white as snow; and of the milk of these mares no person can presume to drink who is not of the family descended from Jengiz-Khan, with the exception only of one other family, named Boriat, to whom that monarch gave the honourable privilege, in reward of valorous achievements in battle, performed in his presence."
Milk from the royal mares! Imagine, if you can, a more fitting, a more graceful reward for valor. This was the people which held mighty Russia under an iron thumb during centuries. When they went forth to battle, these lithe Tartar warriors, each soldier drove twelve to fifteen horses, and, continues Marco, "They are capable of supporting every kind of privation, and when there is a necessity for it, can live for a month on the milk of their mares . . ." The vast empire, it is true, has long since tumbled into dust, but if the chronicles were carefully search they would doubtless prove that 'ere it fell, the Grand Khan of Tartary had forsaken the ways of his fathers, had deserted their hogsheads of white mares' milk and taken to himself such degrading drink as Chinese tea and vodka.
For there is much virtue in milk, my masters. And courage and stamina. But it must be the real stuff. None of your canned, boiled, stewed, powdered, condensed, malted, evaporated, sterilized, pasteurized, peptonized, or otherwise manhandled concoctions will do. Only the fresh, raw article merits that imperial designation, milk, and on this point you will find me, like unto
those ancient Tartars, ( to scramble a good, healthy figure) a firm son of Epicurus. This chill, chalky fluid they serve you in the cities? Milk? H elas, man ami, helas. The difference between this cold, tasteless liquid, frequently doctored with eggs, syrup, ice cream, maraschino cherries, and such other absurdities of the modern soda bazaar, and the warm, subtly, exquisitely flavored beverage secured direct from the lacteal fount is no less marked than the differences which exists between a glass of ice tea in a Childs Restaurant and a tall goblet of Moet et Chandon on the terrace at La Turbit. It was the mares, remember, which these Tartar vikings took a-journeying, not a few bottles of Grade "A" Guernsey dangling from their saddle bows.
For, after all, the principal factor in the aesthetics of milk is Time, with Place, certainly, a very close second. And it was the action of a physician ( to complete the old, reliable three) which first established me en rapport with these other two. This gentleman bundled me into a motor vehicle, by means of which I was quickly wafted to Walnut Lodge and into exile. As Stevenson once said, "By a curious irony of fate, the places to which we are sent when health deserts us are often singularly beautiful." So it was with Walnut Lodge. Only I was not sent there to die . merely to drink milk. I had no particular aversion to milk. In fact, I rather liked it in a mild, passive sort of fashion, which, after all, is about as well as anyone can like a beverage which is left in bottles each morning on the kitchen stoop. A few hours at Walnut Lodge, howewr, altered my taste. In less than two days I had become a hopeless monomaniac. The mere mention of milk would set my pulse to racing. I slept milk, ate milk, talked milk. For at Walnut Lodge, be it known, milk is not served in bottles. At Walnut Lodge one returns to first principles, gently eliminating the obnoxious middleman with his extravagant prices and microbe-laden fingers. At Walnut Lodge the securing and consuming of milk is a rite, and the late summer sun
would scarcely have crept into the pine woods before my hostess and I were abroad
Daybreak. The lane goes through an apple row, past a tall, green hedge. Madame, my hostess, armed with stool and pail, moves briskly through the mist. Indian fashion, I follow, my nervous city legs jerking stiffiy through the wet grass. I, too, am armed. A vessel of thin crystal rests securely in my right hand On the hill-top facing the pine woods stands the Mecca of our matutinal pilgrimage-the dairy barn. And there, standing beside a noble beast whose forbears once roamed the Isle of Jersey, I look on, with rapidly increasing hunger, as the dear lady milks into my glass-directly into the glass, mark you-a foaming stream of the wondrous, white fluid. With eager hands I seize the glistening grail and bury my lustful lips deep into the soft, sweet foam. Slowly, slowly, I sip it. (A person who gulps milk will wear flannel underwear, admire the novels of Harold Bell Wright, and believe in the dogma of infant damnation.) With vastly better success than Oliver Twist ever had, I present my glass for more. Then again and again and again. And I find my soul climbing to ineffable heights of content as the marvelous, snowwhite beverage descends lightly into the trusty old gastronomic laboratory, to be there converted into blood, tissue, thought, and such futile expressions of energy as this.
They were an idyl, a pastoral idyl, those golden weeks at Walnut Lodge, despite their close approach to a tragic finale. For indeed, during several days, gloom, dark, dismal gloom, hung heavily over the sunlit pastures of my little Arcadia It came about in this fashion. The goodly animal at whose altar I was wont to worship each morning was named Bessie. Queen of the herd was Bessie, and rightly so-jersey, gentle, a prodigious producer of butter fat. One day, then, the veterinary came to Walnut Lodge. A lesser beast had received some minor hurt. As the doctor dressed its wounds we all, including Bessie, stood by and viewed the operation. Suddenly Bessie coughed. The horse doctor looked up, gazed intently upon her for a moment, then returned to his labors. Bessie coughed again. With a bound the veterinary was at her side, pounding, thumping, and prodding about the region of her pulmonary organs. And then, before our astounded eyes, a super-grave expression crept over the dismal countenance of this cow surgeon. Straightening up, he twisted the dagger in our bosoms. "Yep," he said, "its T. B. all right" • •
You, who have never drunk fresh milk at dawn, on
the crest of a wind-swept hill, you can never know the horror which these words struck into our hearts. And oddly enough, it was not the bacteria I regretted, the billions of bacteria I had engulfed. A bas, the bacteria, thought I, I laugh in their ugly faces, I grow fat upon them ( which I had) but those daybreak bacchanals, those delightful auroral orgies are finished, finished, finished. My spirits were horribly dashed.
Then, from out the fog, a single, slender hope loomed -the tuberculin test. Suppose this diagnosis were wrong? Doctors have made faulty guesses before, but tuberculin tests do not lie. And so we appealed to this court of last resort. The test was made and the verdict awaited with fluttering hearts. Three mournful days they were, three horrible days during which we moped about the Lodge, our hearts filled, figuratively, with tears, our stomachs filled, actually, with water. "If they massacre her," I gibbered to myself, "I shall plant violets about her tomb -and rosemary."
But the gods were not unkind, and the shadows passed away. Without sin they pronounced her, our gracious Bessie, and back we dashed to our cups. What a libation we tossed to Olympus that morning! What tremendous beakers of the ambrosial fluid coursed down my arid throat!
This, whether you like it or not, is the only way to enjoy the drinking of milk, the only way in which a just opinion can be formed of its sweet, attic flavor, the only way in which its whole delectable goodness can be experienced. The less handling milk receives the more exquisite its taste, and sipped while still pulsing with body heat the higher its food value. And yet, at mention of this warm, vital fluid, nine persons out of every ten will make a wry countenance, protesting all the while that they could not think of mouthing such a beverage. For them it must be chilled, iced, prepared with chocolate syrup or some similar atrocity. Upon being asked if they have ever drunk warm, fresh milk, the unfailing reply is "Oh, I just couldn't!" And thus, without trial, we condemn the grateful fluid. A true lover of milk, being a fellow of infinite tolerance, ( the serenity of a Bessie enters his soul along with her savory product) will not press the issue. Especially since he is usually aware that there are those who prefer "Vo Do Vo" to "The Pilgrims' Chorus," and the novels of Zane Grey to those of James Branch Cabell.
The chief objection to cold drinks, ice cold drinks, is their coldness. Lowered temperatures contract the taste buds, and blunt the senses of gustation. Warm milk, on the other hand, relaxes these delicate organs and makes
(Continued on Page 20)
The Return
By JOHNNIE ADAMS
HE slow moon slipped under a dark cloud; a wind, brown with dry leaves, swept by and a soft, swift rain began to fall.
Jerome shrugged his shoulders and turned from the window. Why could I van not have stayed on? It was the same question he had been asking himself every day since I van left a year before. He wondered if he had wanted to go; if he could have stayed had he wanted to. The new questions annoyed Jerome. Of course, I van had no reason for leaving, other than his own desire. The little black-eyed man had been a father to Jerome, for twenty years, and now, perhaps, he had gone away to see what Jerome would do without him. That idea, at least, was more loyal than the first. The artist smiled. The master would be pleased when he heard that he had sold his "Dancing Girl," for five thousand dollars.
Jerome walked thoughtfully across the room to where a rather low frame stood. He drew aside the velvet hanging that covered the only portrait of I van he had ever done. He stepped back and put his fingers up to his lips with a quick nervous gesture. Had he put that expression on his friend's face with his own hand? He turned away, a hurt look in his eyes. Could anyone else have touched the master's face? He did not want to look at the picture again, but something forced his gaze back. There was the same inquisitive stare in the soft black eyes, and the lightly mocking smile.
He dreamed about the picture that night, and in the vision, a cynical smile crept across the lips, hovered for a moment, and vanished. He did not look at the picture the next morning, because he was afraid of seeing a bitter smile that would make him think things he did not care to remember. All that day he saw the black eyes before him. The servants noticed that he glanced about him half-curiously, half-fearfully. He drank a glass of iced coffee for lunch, but would eat no dinner. His tone was almost sharp as he told Mark he must not be disturbed that evening.
As he lay back in his chair, he felt suddenly at ease. Laughing at his fears, he opened a book and began to read: "The man turned and saw at his window the eyes that had followed " The book struck the floor
almost in front of the picture. Jerome stood up with an angry flush on his face. Could he never forget that he had been afraid of a picture for two days?
"Monsieur?"
The voice was clear and low, but strangely difficult as if it were speaking for the first time in many years.
"Well?" Jerome's cold tone broke the silence. He felt a sudden resentment toward Mark.
"Monsieur?" It was the same hesitating tone.
Jerome turned and bowed stiffly to cover his surprise.
"You wished to see me?" he said.
"Monsieur has forgotten an appointment, perhaps?"
"An appointment? With you?"
"Surely, Monsieur has not forgotten the evening of the day before yesterday?"
"But I don't paint at night-at least, not until the new lights are finished in the studio." The day before yesterday? The day I van's eyes . . .
"It is strange that Monsieur allowed himself to be engaged this evening."
Jerome thought for a moment. It was possible, after all, though he could not remember. In an instant he was the charming host Ivan had taught him to be.
"I beg your pardon. Will you be seated?"
The man came forward from behind Ivan's picture. Jerome felt the chill, the fear, the horror steal back again over him. He hardly saw the graceful, whitehaired little man seat himself close beside the covered portrait. Since he had to paint in the room in which they now were, Jerome wondered if it would be better to stand between the stranger and the portrait, or face both.
"If you don't mind, you may sit here," he said, indicating a chair on the other side of the room.
"If Monsieur doesn't mind, I'll sit here."
The church clock struck twelve. The man had not moved and Jerome painted on. The early hours of the morning slipped by slowly and silently, except for the toneless beat of the bell on the tower.
It was a sudden, cheerless dawn that came up to the windows of Jerome's room. The gray light startled the painter, and he suddenly stopped working. For a moment his hands rested against his tired eyes. When he glanced ( Continued on Page 21)
Decade
By J. DONALD DEVILBISS
N down the field dashed the State full- the years had seemed in the spending! How long they back. In true college story style the seemed now they were spent! white markers passed under his feet like the pales of a picket fence. On he dashed-the shadow of the goal posts falling upon his broad shoulders.
Madly the State stands rose as one and cheered, a tidal wave of surging blue. Never before had a State crowd so prayed for a meager six points-State teams, year after year, inspired even the most apathetic writers to the use of epithets such as steam-roller, hurricane, pony-express, and other borrowings from the sciences of history and meteorology. Never before had Villa Vista College scored a field goal, and then held like a stone wall, for three long, breathless quarters.
The State fullback took the last leap which would carry him across the final chalk-line; suddenly from somewhere there was launched a streak of red; both men fell with a reverberating crash, just as the referee and timekeeper blew their whistles in unison.
A great hush fell upon the throng, while the official dived into the tangled mass of helmets and cleated shoes which now covered the ball. Mudspattered, but triumphant, he cleared away the gladiators and pointed to the pigskin, that all might see. It lay with its tip almost touching the goal line-almost
Still silent, woebegone and dejected, the State crowd filed down the runways and out, spirits lower than the proverbial amoeba's instep, aware for the first time of the chilling drizzle that obliterated the last vestiges of Thanksgiving glamor. The stillness was broken only by the cheers of three well-plastered Villa Vista students, who raced around the top of the stadium, closely pursued by three fat policemen.
Bill Carroll turned up his coat collar and shuffled out with the mob. What a swell homecoming this had turned out to be. Now in his day he reflected-but his day had been another day, and much can change in ten years. Ten breathless years above the clouds; France, Russia, Armenia, Morocco-bombs and adventure and money. For those pilgrims of the air served a cruel, but withal a generous god, who meted out death and fame and fortune with an unstinting hand. And how short
But it was a sorry homecoming, even sorrier than homecomings are wont to be, and that is sad indeed. Bill had already dismissed the impulse to go out to "the house"; how horrible it would be to meet the newest pledges: "'Eighteen, eh! Let's see, you just missed the War, didn't you. Oh, that's right, the big push didn't begin until September. Aviation? Hot stuff-an ace in our midst. By the way, is it true that the French " Decidedly, facing the fraternity alone was an impossibility. Bill headed for the hotel, hoping to find a fresh pack of Luckies, and perhaps to bump into some long lost classmate.
He liked the magnificent lobby of the hotel, with its shaded lights and great sinky lounges-the almost forgotten ease and softness of peaceful civilization. He liked the blue haze of fragrant cigarette smoke and the faintest suggestion of Fleurs d' amour, like the high notes of a violin above the brass of an orchestra. And the girls, all soft red lips and crushed yellow crysanthemums and fur glistening with raindrops. Only Bill didn't like the girls -they were children; they didn't have bobbed hair and their knees were discreetly hidden-the flapper had evidently passed to her Valhalla-but still they were children, trying very hard to be grown-ups.
The girl of the cigar counter smiled genially at the wisp of blue in Bill's buttonhole. Her face was a bit familiar. Wonder if she had been there when he went to college. No, the guardian of the smokes in those days had been a quite decided blonde-by peroxide. Bill turned to go. A tiny voice, half-afraid, half-mocking, trailed after him:
"Ten years ago," it said, "those shoulders belonged to 'Mudhorse' Carroll. Little boy, where'd you steal them?" He turned.
"Prom girl," he hazarded, "many things can happen in ten years. One might even come to forget your name."
"Quite possible-when one never knew it." And she went on quickly before he could reply, "No, you have yet to meet me, 'M udhorse.' You really should interview our old friend Addison Sims. Or perhaps it was just your memory that night. Have you the faintest recollection of that homecoming dance after the last game you played
( Continued on Page 23)
Campus
By T. J. HESTON
-R-R-ING-A-R-R-ING s hrilled the alarm. Ei g ht o'clock, you've got to g et up. Get up, there's no use pulling tho se bedclothes around you closer, get up. It's cold, b-r-r-r. Shut that window will you? I'm sleepy as hell; too much spree last night, ought to have stayed in the room and studied. Guess I'll stay in tonight. Naw, I promised to call up Mabel. Sweet little thing, that Mabel! Uh, boy she's a pippin. Ju st a s cute a trick as you ever want to see. Hope that Bill will let me have the flivver. Wonder why he doesn't like the women never did? Funny. It sure is cold. Say Jim, let me have a little of that shaving cream of yours. I'll have to take a quick one. Gotta extra towel? All of mine are in the wash. P-f-f-f . . . not a darn bit of hot water; this stuff's just like ice. Can't shave with water as cold as this; have to let the old beard g o for a while longer. C'mon, Jim, hurry up, let's get some breakfast. Nice, black, strong coffee will about set me right. Aw, c'mon Jim, gonna take all day with that tie of yours?
Dining hall. Breakfast. Two shriveled hot dogs in the center of a cracked browned plate. vVeak, dish-watercoffee with milk. Hard, left-over bread with a yellow dab of oleo. Sometimes, thick, doughy, sour milk biscuits, half-done. A fine sturdy repast for a college man, whose only comfort then at breakfast time is obtained by inhaling sumptuous lungsful of tobacco smoke from either pipe or cigarette! Somehow, no matter how poor the meal, if it is leisurely eaten with lively comrades , and is followed by a good masculine smoke, there is a satisfaction a certain inexplicable feeling of warmth and well-being.
Nine o'clock class. Two of them, damn it. Another climb up that blamed path. Things frozen up this morning, Jim. Look at that stream. Wonder if the ice is strong? Here, lemme have a rock. Zip it only made a scratch. Wonder how the lake's getting along? Any skating today? Good morning, gentlemen. Say Jerry, will you loan me your skates about eleven o'clock? Would like to take a turn on the ice. I'll have about a half an hour then. Thanks, I'll get them just before chapel. Hello old fellow, yeah I saw yuh last night, you big bum. Where'd you get her from? Not bad, not bad. Regular ladies' man, huh? They couldn't get along with-
out you, could they? Aw, g'w a n, it's different with me. Lemme tell you
Class. Nine o'clock. No professor yet. Wonder if the old guy's going to show up today? Most likely out on another of those sprees. Say, did you have a class from him last year? Well, it was just before the Thanksgiving holidays . . . and he said, "Fellows, I just can't hold class this morning too much celebration last night ." About ten minutes after. C'mon let's get away from here. All right, everybody go. Say, whatcha waiting for, he ain't coming? Let's go on into the library. I ought to be doing some parallel. Seven hundred and fifty pages . . . and I haven't done a lick of it yet.
Bastable's Outline of Public Finance. Seated in fiction alcove reading. Eye wanders listlessly from page and falls upon brilliant red binding. Get up, go over and take this book from shelf. Scarlet Sister Mary. Hmmm. Mrs. Peterkin, eh! Looks pretty good. Back to chair reading Scarlet Sister. Hello Tom! Look at tihis hot stuff! Here let me get my feet off of this chair. Sit down. What do you think about the game? Pretty poor season so far, but if we can come out 0. K. against those bums down there, I'd be satis~ed. Hope we have good weather. Wet field oughter help us though. May as well fight it out square. You boys can't do any talking in here. You'll have to use a classroom. All right, let's talk a little lower. Say, I've got a class. Want to go down and get my mail before ten o'clock. Looking for a letter from your bootsey, huh? Well, maybe, never can tell. There'd better be a letter for me, I'll tell you that.
Black, muddy path, down a hill. Snow clogged gutters stretched helplessly on either side. A nipping, cold breeze rustling the ice-swept pines. Hello, gentlemen! Good morning, sir. All right, old Spanish shark, I see yuh. Wooden platform. Letter, postcard, and package seekers milling about post-office. Wonder who this is writing to me from Oshkosh? I haven't had a letter in a week. ,vell, here's my steady. Hell, all I get is shoes and clothing advertisements. C'mon, old fellow, have a drink. Two dopes. Belittered floor. Overflowing refuse cans. Whirr of an electric shaker. Odor of toasted ham sandwiches. Man sucking straws sticking out of pint bottles of milk. Lamentations of the starved. What
are you taking so long for?
Gimme a chocolate shake a toasted ham Coca-Cola apple pie glass of milk say get a move on you, I've been standing here for fifteen minutes . Say wiggle a little, will yuh? . . . Not hitting it off so well this morning, are you? If you can't come to life, we're gonna get another soda-jerker Hey, get me a cream puff, will you? You're next Can you cash a little check for me? Gotta eat and so it keeps up interminably throughout the day . . . if not a mad melee of hungered students, then a legion of loafers stretching themselves on little wooden benches and bulling sex baseball football boxing gin women classes professors women the administration women dancing and so on . . . This Student Shop is the center of offtime University life.
Back to class. Ten o'clock. Dry stuff. Take a back seat can prop my feet up on seat in front of me by doing that. Roll call Here! Open notebook to proper place. Take out fountain pen. No ink. Decide to copy notes from somebody else. Notice professor looking at me and industriously set myself to scribble with a dry pen across an already filled page. Find pencil in upper vest pocket, but decide that it would ruin appearance of notebook to have some writing in pencil and some in ink. Begin drawing caricatures of prof. None of them look much like him. Give up as a bad job. Fall to listening to what the prof has to say. Break in with a question to convey impression that I've been paying close attention. Argue a little, but finally end up by pretending at least that I think that our good teacher is in the right. Psychology proves that nothing so flatters a person as to let him think that he has won out in an argument-and you see that you are mistaken. Day dream for remainder of class, but do not neglect to offer some bit of knowledge or ask a question of the prof after class. Generally ask his opinion concerning something. Not that it'll mean anything, but
Ten minutes before next class. Say, I'm gonna bum a cigarette from you and if I didn't think it was too much, I'd also like to have a light Thanks! Remind me some day and I'll pay you back. Say, have you got your work ready for today? You have? What are you doing, getting strength of purpose, huh? I really didn't have time to do mine last night. Aw, he'll probably forget all about it anyway. I like this class . right much of a crip, but it's pretty interesting. Well there
he goes, guess we'd better go in. If there's one thing that guy doesn't like, it's being late for his class. Yeah, he's all right. The last class for the day. It is one of those more or less esthetic imbroglios which the greater majority of students take without knowing exactly why. Quite enjoyable . . a class without a text! Motivated in general by the current turn of events or the ideas which pop into one man's head, this coterie succeeds at times in being thoroughly and delightfully amused, but at other times when one isn't absorbed by the frequent subject material, it is irritating. Well, gentlemen, you may get something from this, but I don't know.
Classes over. Another hour before lunch. Meet friend interested in esthetics. Journey to library in his company to seek out poetry. Stand on our heads and try a few of friends Cummings and Stein. Feel thoroughly abashed and fall into discussion on Benet, Cullen, and others. Pick up volume of Brother Lindsay's look at illustrations and try to decipher cryptic signs at bottom page. Spend some time doing this. Finally succeed in settling most of the problems of modern poetry. And it's time for lunch.
Refectory again. Food. Cold. Hard fried chops, surrounded on three sides by beans, potatoes, and beets. Men chattering, rattle of dishes, clinking of silverware, smell of food, and swish something plunks me on the back of the neck. Soaked bread! Aw, weren't these guys ever going to grow up? Gee, it sure makes yuh mad. Boys in white dashing about with large trays bearing edibles. Trays rattling tinnily. Dinner is over. A blue cloud hovers over the dining hall. Wreaths of Fatima, Lucky, Camel, and Old Gold vapor unite to form a self sufficient smoke screen of satisfaction
Afternoon. Doze off until after three o'clock. Get up and have a hard time getting myself adjusted. Decide to take a shower to wake me up. Water is only luke warm, but do not particularly mind. Am thinking about Mabel Yeah, she sure is cute. Mustn't forget to call her up. Rub myself down with a sumptuous turkish towel. Body glows red. Feel much better. Better study. Yeah, study so I can go out tonight. Sit down at desk with book on history. Read two paragraphs and begin fingering top of inkwell. Notice calendar and see that it is three months behind. Bring calendar up to date and proceed to look on into the future. Count days before Christmas holidays. Come across Aunt Maggie's birthday, which for some reason is practically the only ( Continued on Page 21)
A Song of the Circus
By GEORGE w. CUTLER, JR.
TOMONSON was perhaps the best logger that the Stratcraft and Turner Lumber Company had ever employed. I don't know how long he had been with them, but he was there when I arrived to take the job as clerk in the shipping department, and I have been with the company for twelve years. He was a big fellow, six feet-two in his stockingfeet and weighed, I guess, about two hundred and ten pounds. His chest was deep, his arms, long, and his voice strong, but mellow and always pleasing to the ear.
We soon grew to be the best of friends, which I think must have been attributed to our mutual love of music, for I knew very little about the lumber business and he knew more than any outside man employed.
Anyway, one night he heard me playing my violin in my room, up over the office, and came up and asked me if he might stay awhile and listen. I gladly consented, for I was not used to the silence of the big woods, and at times grew very lonesome.
In a few nights he came over again, and it was not long before he came every night and while I played would look into the fire. He very seldom commented and even when I stopped, he would continue to stare at the flames and wait for me to go on.
Well, one night I unconsciously began a catchy little song that you may remember. It was entitled, "You Are As Sweet As the Dew of the Rose." I was not noticing Lonnie, but when I had finished about two verses of it, he jumped to his feet and with an oath, begged me to stop.
Of course, I was curious, but for a while he would tell me nothing. Finally, I began to play again, but when I glanced over to where he sat, I could see that his mind was not on the music, for his mouth was twitching and every little while his muscles would swell until it seemed as if the sleeves of his huge mackinau must burst.
Then all of a sudden he called for me to stop, which I did, but said nothing and waited. For, I guess two minutes, he continued to stare into the fire without saying a word. Finally, and very calmly, he told me that he had a story to tell. I have often wondered why he told me. I don't know the details as clearly as I once
did, but I shall never forget his emotion as he talked that night, with the light from the fire plying upon his face. Here's the story:
He had run away from his home, in a small Virginia town, with a passing circus, when but fifteen, and after several years of hard work was finally given, because of his great strength, an act of his own.
He would come out every night just before the show closed and offer to hold any two cars of equal power. After the audience had become enthusiastic, he would ask that two men in the crowd bring in their cars. These he would place back to back, and about thirty feet apart. A rope was made fast to the rear axle of each and the other end fastened to straps on his arms. The slack in the ropes was then taken up and when he was all set, Lonnie would give the signal for both drivers to let out their clutch at the same moment.
That's all I know about the act, for I have never seen it, but anyway he held the cars until they buried themselves to the hub. According to Lonnie, the feat required right much strength, but was not as hard to perform as it looked to be.
Lonnie had a good friend in Fargo, the Human Skeleton. Every night around the cook tent, while they were getting a cup of coffee, Fargo would kid Lonnie, particularly about his seeming dislike of women. It was Fargo that got Lonnie interested, if for no other reason than to win a bet that they had made, that Lonnie would not go and make love to the bare-back rider, who was the bandmaster's daughter. According to Lonnie, the girl was "pretty enough to have her picture on a calendar," anyhow, and it did not take him long to take the matter more seriously.
For a long time she would have very little to do with him, but finally, when she saw that his act was becoming quite a success, she began to take notice of him
He said that the happiest night of his life was the night of his first public performance. After the show, she came to him and told him how proud she was of him. They walked to her tent, and such was his boyish enthusiasm for her that they parted with a good-night kiss. From that night on, his life had been one happy day after another. Every night after the audience had ap-
plauded him, she would come and tell him how fine he had been and how she admired his strength.
"You make me feel so small and weak," she would say, "let me feel your muscles again, Lonnie." And Lonnie would straighten out his arm and then bring his fist forward, so that the muscles swelled, until her small, fair hand would have nothing to grip. She confided that her love for him grew as she watched his performances. "But, Lonnie," she would exclaim, with a note of alarm, "suppose that something should happen, a strap would break-why, you would break your shoulder or your arm anyway."
Then he would tell her that he would never break his arm so bad that he couldn't still put it around her slim waist. She would laugh then and tell him if he didn't go to bed, he would become as weak as Fargo, the human skeleton. So Lonnie would go to his tent and dream of her all night.
Two years went by in this way and they were to be married as soon as the show quit the road for the winter.
Then one night a careless driver threw his car in gear before Lonnie had set himself and broke a bone in his shoulder. For a month he could hardly move his arm and finally when it did get well the doctor told him that he had better not go back to his old act, for if the same thing ever happened again he might never regain the full use of his arm.
So he took up bar bending and tearing packs of cards in half, for there was nothing else for him to do and he wished to remain with the circus.
It was about this time that the owner of the show bought the girl (funny, but Lonnie never told me her name) a big white horse, that had been trained to canter and prance to this same song Lonnie wouldn't let me play.
The girl fell in love with the horse at once, and made much to do about him and was constantly whistling or singing the song that he cantered by. ,.
One night not long after Lonnie took up bar bending the girl did not come to him after the show and the next night, when he went to her tent, she complained of a headache and he had to leave her. For a week she would not see him and then Lonnie began to sense that something was wrong.
The day before the last show of the season she told him that they could not be married, the following month, as they had planned, but would not explain the reason.
So the show disbanded and Lonnie went South for th~ winter and although he wrote several times, he never heard from her once.
The next spring, he received a notice from the manager of the show to report for work at a certain time. When he arrived, most of the company, including the newcomers, had already gathered, as most of them had to get their acts together.
He arrived just after breakfast and after drinking a cup of coffee, at the cook tent, went to look for the girl. It had irked him more than usual, when Fargo had kidded him in the cook tent with: "How you coming with the bare-back rider, Lonnie?"
He found her coming out of her tent with an armful of costumes that she had been mending and which she almost dropped when she saw him.
"Oh, Lonnie," she said, holding out her hand as he advanced, "I am so glad to see you.
"Oh, no, you mustn't try to kiss me, Lonnie, I'm married now, you know-Oh! hadn't you heard?"
There Lonnie stopped talking and when I saw that he had no intention of saying more, I asked him if she had married one of the other men in the show.
Lonnie looked up as if surprised that I didn't know or hadn't guessed the rest; then in almost a whisper, he answered me:
"God, yes, she married Fargo, the human skeleton!"
Satiric Quatrain
I gave you all, perhaps, you say: I gave you more than all, you fear.
-To which I have but one reply, Your lips were too expectant, dear.
-T. B. Hulcher.
Blue Ribbon Baby
By JOHN ]. SCHERER
AM CONVINCED," proclaimed Lee, "that my only hope lies in faith and in an implicit belief in Divine Providence."
It had all started less than a month back, when Lee and young Doctor Rasey had had a tuff in the classroom.
All year Lee had been doing good work for Doctor Rasey in English. Preparing for a degree and majoring in English, Lee always had his mind set upon the day in the future when he hoped to enter the Baker School for P. G . work in his favorite subject. His short stories had carried off all possible honors in the school magazine, and one or two had been accepted by one of the smaller periodicals, boasting a larger circulation. Thus it was that Lee was more or less taken by surprise when the young professor jumped him about his work. Words led to words. "But, sir," said Lee, "I have been giving you my best all year."
"None of your talk, young fellow." Whereupon Lee had picked up his note books, uttered a perfectly enunciated "go to hell," and stalked from the room. The strained relationship had not loosened a bit and three weeks later the young Senior was faced with a problem.
"You know, Dave," he was saying, "Rasey is the guy that passes on my thesis. There is no way in the name of God for me to get a passing grade from him. Why, Jeez, he's tighter'n a tick as it is without that fight we had."
"What's your subject, Lee?"
"I've gotta write a volume, almost, on 'Siamese Mythology.' Can you beat it. That dirty devil assigned me that subject; he knew durn well I didn't know anything about that kind of bunk. I'm sunk."
"Indubitably," sympathized Dave.
For three days I didn't even get a glimpse of Lee, but according to all reports at the house, he was feeling pretty low. It seems that he had a girl who wanted to marry him, but her father, dubious about the situation, had taken refuge in the only haven left to him. "If," he had said, · "this boy doesn't get his degree-you can't marry him until he does." And there, apparently, went the prize.
I passed him at the corner the next day. He and three or four of the boys were blowing it off in front of
the shop. Just as I passed I heard one of them say, "Hey Lee, have you heard about Rasey and his wife? They're going to .'' I was out of earshot and thought no more about it until some days later. When I did have cause to think of it again it convinced me that Lee should have had a degree without even entering the institution. I agreed with the rest that Lee was pretty smart.
That day seemed to mark a turning point in the life of our hero. With the carefree air of one who lives without a burden, Lee was bouncing about the campus in high good humor. Books were unearthed from the dustiest shelves of all the libraries in town-books on Siam and Siamese mythology. Three or four deep they were piled on the desk in Lee's room and page by page the little bundle of white paper, all tied with ribbon, became larger. "Lee has really gone to work. It's a shame not to get a degree after all that, just because some idiot is grouchy." That was the concensus of opinion among the fellow lodge members who coincided in the amazement caused by the noticeable change in Lee. Work must be helping his point of view.
The day before the papers were due to go to Rasey, I was walking down Grove Street, in town, and was crossing an intersection when who should bounce jubilantly from the door of the hospital on the opposite corner but Lee. Before I could hail him he had dashed away.
Twice that afternoon I noticed him slinking out of the house, and each time he returned with a more joyful and lissom tread. "Here," I thought, "is mystery.'' But not a word could be extracted from the suspect.
Until ten o'clock that night Lee would run to the phone every little while, mumble some number into the mouthpiece, and smile happily during the conversation. After the last of these he was seen standing above his desk, patting into place the blue ribbon which he had tied about his thesis on 'Siamese Mythology.'
Th~ morning of the fateful day, the date set for the completion and handing to Doctor Rasey of the thesis, found Lee up two hours ahead of his usual time. As I was going down the stairs I saw him make a dash for the front door. Slipping out behind him, I followed to the door of the hospital and returned to the house, trying to
(Continued on Page 22)
Gadsby's
By M. LOUISE DINWIDDIE
Gadsby's is a historic old tavern, located in Alexandria, Virginia. During the period of the Revolution, it was the famous city hostelry. Famous men honored its rooms, Washington, Lafayette, DeKalb and many others. Since then it ,has been forgotten. The D. A. R. decided last year to restore it and a card party was given there for the benefit of the restoration.
There it dreams-wrapped in the dust of centuries, The old tavern, Gadsby's hostelry, A silent memorial of the passing procession Of long lost years' celebrites.
There it dreams-behind dark ramparts of old walls, Crumbling walls, dusty walls; Resounding with echoes of forgotten times, Forgotten toasts, mingled with The metallic clinking of old goblets.
Toasts-words-words that clung as the old cobwebs, Words that seered the very souls of men.
Words of Washington, The last sad order to his "Independent Blues" Indelibly stamped on the old worn steps.
Words of Lafayette, Gay words, inspired by old Madeira, Culminated by a fill of "canvas backs."
Words-glorious words!
Of a gala glorious occasion!
The first celebration of the adoption of the Constitution.
Words-sad pathetic words, The dying words of a "female stranger," Secreted, embedded in these old, crumbling walls.
Words-musical, romantic words. Whispered to the soft strains of the minuet, Danced to the Queen, a "Birthnight Ball."
Words-of DeKalb. Heroic words, of war, revolution! Inspiring, stirring the steps to martial tread.
And now, the old house dreams, Lost to all but its whispering echoes, Unconscious of Time's cruel changes, That make its once familiar friends, Antiquities in a modern era.
But, suddenly through the crumbling walls, Through the musty air, up from the warped floors, Shrieking into the pits of its very soul, Breaking the spell of centuries, Crept a loud, deafening roar, Flashed a vivid light, giving a nacreous luster to the cobwebs,
Then a discordant cry above it all, Dispersing its dreams, shattering the tranquillity of years, "I Bid Three Spades!"
Once Upon a Time
MARGARET LoWE
HE Gothic hall shone silver cold in the moonlight and the shadows of the age-old pine trees were treacherous shifting pools of gloom. The ugly little gargoyle who was guardian of the hall sighed deeply, staring up at the stars, thinking. The hall was beautiful, inexpressibly so, but the youth who lived beneath the vaulted roof never smiled, never laughed. They unfolded the tangled skein of their years with skill, but there was something lacking. He had failed in his guardianship.
The coolness of the path leading to the lake lay invitingly ahead and he walked down it slowly, thoughtfully. What could be done? A dull red glow attracted his attention. Stooping stiffly he picked up a deep red stone, from its bed of pungent pine needles. As he held it, a moonbeam fell on its hard surface and splashed thousands of rainbow tinted splinters of itself on the stone till it burned and lived in the brown leather palm of the gargoyle's hand.
"Surely this will brighten the darkest of halls," cried the little man, for his eyes smarted from the red fire of the stone. Hastily he made his way to the center of the hall and hung his jewel high in the vault. It burned there, a scintillating glory which challenged the gloom of the hall and banished it. But the guardian was not happy. True, there was no more gloom, but the brilliance was too great, too strong. The youths laughed raucously, but did not smile and strove bitterly to defeat those about them. This glowing stone had brought too strong a reaction and
the little man hid it away in a deep niche. The gloom was less disturbing
The sun shone hot on the ripples of the lake, making a shield of hammered gold, but the vaulted hall was cold and the faces of the youths set and old. The guardian walked pensively through the forest aisles and sat down on a rock, which was his favorite resting place. He ran his hand idly through the heaps of wind piled leaves at his side, sifting them into orange, yellow and crimson mounds. Suddenly his sensitive fingers touched a hard round object and a bit of stone, like the deep blue of an autumn twilight, lay in his hand. "What a pretty bauble," he exclaimed and carried it to the hall where he placed it in the hiding place with the red stone.
As he walked among the youths he felt a difference, heard a merry laugh and saw a radiant smile. Looking about the hall he could find no trace of gloom-it seemed to have been dusted away by a giant brush. Even the sun beams shone through the high casements and laughed at themselves in the polished rafters. The gargoyle's heart was warm and joyful-but what had made the change? As he turned around he saw a lovely creature standing by his side smiling. "Isn't it all lovely?" she said. "Oh," gasped the guardian, "perhaps you can explain!" "Surely," she replied, "I am the spirit of sportsmanship and I've come to make my home with you. My body comes from the strength of the red stone and my heart from the loyalty of the blue. Neither can create sportsmanship alone, but together-red and blue-they form a tempered strength, a keen loyalty, a true spirit."
Gold
Dust of Gold, Cloud brushed from the evening vestures of the sun, Who gathers thee into his pan of sifted gain?
Burnished gold, Wind tossed on the branches of the sturdy oak, Who plucks thee, shining treasure, on an autumn day?
Molten gold, Moon kissed on the waters of a mountain stream, Who shapes thee into images of weird design?
Heart of gold, Great soul of the constant searcher for the truth, Can I not find the answer to my riddle there?
-Katherine Brugh.
BOOK REVIEWS
Bolivar, The Passionate Warrior. By T. R. Ybarra. Ives Washburn, New York. 365 pages.
America! It is indeed obvious that the all important, self-centered citizen of this great republic of ours ascribes an altogether too limited character to the geographical significance of this magic word. To him the history of America is the history of his own United States. To him American heroes are the men who have made the history of our country- Washington, Jefferson, Lincoln, and countless others. He forgets that America embraces two great continents, stretching from North Pole to South, including many nations great and small whose history and heroes we know little of-not because there are none, but rather because we do not take the time to read what there is Bolivar? Where have you heard that name before?
In his Passionate Warrior, Mr. Ybarra brings us such a colorful characterization of the man who led the fight for South American liberty, that whether we have heard the name before or not, it is certain we will never forget the man Bolivar, after we have read this thrilling biography. In fact this work reads more like fiction than biography. It comes at a very significant time, for next year South America will celebrate its 100 years of freedom and likewise observe the centennial of the glorious conqueror. In comparison with South America's struggle for liberty, the American Revolution was hardly more than a mild skirmish. It was only after seventeen years of bloodshed and violence, involving an unspeakable loss of life, that the revolutionary forces won the coveted prize. Led by Bolivar they waded through a sea of blood, torture, and treachery, giving no quarter and asking none, savagely pushing their enemies aside, until the last Spanish flag was dragged down in defeat. And what a leader the liberator was! The story of his life is like an unreal dream, which finally ends in a nightmare. The story of his military campaigns is a record of unflinching determination. The odds were against him on every hand. He was again and again betrayed by his own companions, those whom he fully trusted. But treachery and the superior forces of his enemies didn't phase him in the least. He possessed one of those magnetic personalities that dominated friends and defeated foes. He crushed all opposition, conquered all-all except himself.
Bolivar's passions accomplished what his enemies could
not, bringing him from the lofty heights of dictatorship to absolute poverty. He who had overthrown the iron rule of mighty Spain and conquered the impassable Andes, died friendless in a borrowed night-shirt.
No man is more qualified to write a biography of Bolivar than Mr. Ybarra. His ancestors fought under the Liberator. One of them saved him from assassins; another was with him when he died. The author was brought up in an atmosphere charged with profound admiration and loyalty to the great leader. He tells the story with sympathy and enthusiasm.
The Passionate Warrior is a living biography that brings to you one of history's most incredible chapters, one of the world's most romantic life stories. It is vivid, thrilling, authentic-the last word in biographies.
-J.P. B.
An Hour of the American Novel. By Grant Overton. J. B. Lippincott and Company, 1929. 155 pages.
America, ever seeking a great deal in a little bit, may find somewhat of that which it wishes in literary, art1st1c, and scientific lines in Lippincott's One Hour Series. This series of one dozen books, six of which are already published and six of which are in preparation, makes a rapid survey of the novel, drama, history, art, music and poetry of America; the English novel and English poetry; Health; Psychology; Motion Pictures; and the French novel. The series may in all probability be added to if the idea gains any great popularity with the American public. Each of the books is written especially for the series by an authority or expert in the field with which the book deals.
An Hour of the American Novel begins with a few short and disparaging remarks upon our first novelist, Charles Brockden Brown, then hurries over to Cooper, Hawthorne, Melville, Howells, Twain and James. These authors are covered sketchily-due to the length limit set to the book, Mr. Overton cannot cover his subjects, other than sketchily-and we arrive at the "moderns" and the contemporaries. Stephen Crane, Dreiser, Tarkington, Hergesheimer, Cabell, Lewis, and Cather receive a chapter each. Others of the better novelists are dealt with in the miscellaneous chapters like The Pocket Theatre, Life ( Continued on Page 24)
In This Issue
W. F. FIDLER: Mr. Fidler's poem was placed unobstrusively into our Messenger Box. It is a fine illustration of internal rhyme and can be found on the frontispage. Mr. Fidler should write more poetry.
JOHNNIE ADAMS: Miss Adams needs no introduction to readers of THE MESSENGER,in which she has made frequent appearances. Her short stories have a fine sense of dramatic value.
CUTHBERT W HOOSIS: See note at beginning of his article.
]. DONALD DEVILBISS: Donald is a hangover from the glorious days of Sigma Upsilon's ascendancy. We are always delighted to hear from him-especially when he sends us stories like Decade.
T. J. HESTON is very fortunately unknown to us.
GEORGEW. CUTLER: Mr. Cutler was formerly a student in Richmond College. We are very glad to print a story of his this month and hope that he will send us more.
T. B. HuLCHER: Better known in Westhampton than he is to this writer. He refused to face us with his poem, but placed it in the Messenger Box. We print it with much fortitude.
J. J. SCHERER,JR.: Mr. Scherer, a former student of Richmond College, is very well known to readers of THE MESSENGER. His story, Cinders, in the last issue attracted much favorable comment. You will find Blue Ribbon Baby highly amusing.
HATTIE HABEL: Miss Habel is a new contributor to THE MESSENGER,and it is to be hoped that she will continue to submit her poetry.
M. L. SAUNDERS:Miss Saunders' The Baggage Car, is unusual. Her delightful tales of China almost transport us to that fascinating country of quaint traditions, chow mein, and bamboo soup.
M. L. DINWIDDIE: Miss Dinwiddie is a Freshman in Westhampton and makes her first appearance in THE MESSENGER. She might stage a bridge game on the campus if it so dispels a tomb of sombreness and longevity.
MARGARETLowE: Miss Lowe has been a constant contributor to THE MESSENGER. Her short sketch this month is quite in line with what is going on around us.
MESSRS. KINCHELOE and BATKINS: The demon critics, can be held accountable for the Book Reviews.
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MEDITATIONS LAITEUSES
( Continued from Page 8) possible the fullest development of the liquid's cunning flavor. The French, masters of the art de bien vivre, are well acquainted with these simple facts. They know the gloom which lurks in a chill glass, they know the cheer which smiles from a warm bowl. And so, when you take that walking tour up through the Ardennes, or down the valley of the Loire, or by way of the Grand Corniche, what is this she sets before you, this portly Madame l'Aubergiste, as you toast your toes by the inn fire some rosy morn in Autumn? It is nothing less than a bowl of steaming milk a bowl of steaming milk and a great crust of gold-brown bread. For they will not let you take the road, will these good mothers of Gaul, with a chattering, frosty paunch. Mais non. A huge bowl of hot milk, colored, perchance with a dash of coffee, ( the only adulterant permitted) must first enkindle the walls of your soon-smiling stomach. And then, as you shoulder your knapsack and issue forth into a Corot landscape, then, if your heart does not lift and your heels tread on shimmering clouds through many a mile of poplar-embroidered highway, then, truly, your soul is potter's clay.
So the next time you grimace at mention of fresh, warm milk, go seize the old flivver, roll off into the countryside, and set yourself down before some rural shrine dedicated to the fair daughters of Jersey, or Guernsey, or Holstein. I cannot hope that you will arrive for the first office of the day-that which I have sketched above-but the second service, that which transpires at twilight ( "the even'n g milking," a rude peasantry call it) is no less intriguing, no less satisfying than the rite graced by Aurora. And should the high-priestess of this particular temple be some dark-eyed Hebe, nineteen, slender, and not overbashful, then, at last, will there _ steal into your soul the true meaning of that phrase, "Jove's Nectar."
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PAGE TWENTY-ONE
CAMPUS
(Continued from Page 12) birthday date beside my own that I can remember. Notice that it comes on Sunday. Well I think I know this history. That other guy said that he wouldn't be able to meet his class tomorrow and I've got plenty of time in the morning to copy my Spanish sentences from Robbie so I guess I'm through. Supper. Refectory. Aw hell, what's the use talking about it.
Telephone booth after a long wait. Hello, Mabel. Well what are we going to do? I'll have the flivver. Where do you wanta go? You know, I just can't wait to see yuh. Why can't I wait? Aw, I wanta tell you something something very important. Naw, I can't tell you over the phone. I can say it much better when I look into those great big beautiful brown eyes. Aw right, honey • see you about eight. Oh man! Back to room for purpose of sheiking up. Shave slowly with much pain. Carefully polish shoes. Pink, smelly cream in a thick white bottle. Cake it on wet hair and plaster locks down. Smooth a little mineral oil on top to make head glisten, Valentino-like. Swallow a bit of Listerine. Am going to see a friend and can't afford to take a chance. After some deliberation, pick out most passionately blended necktie and scrutinize it with great pride. Powder face with Mennen's. Finally put on tie, vest and coat. Diligently search before a mirror for any flaws. Apparently satisfied, leave the dormitory and chug off toward town in a bumpety-bump piece of Fordcraft.
Two A. M. Undress quickly and carelessly. Put out light. Stand stripped before the window and gaze woefully at the heavy half-moon, still lolling lazily above a distant clump of pines. Sigh abysmally. Put on black and white Chinese silk pajamas, creep between the frigid white sheets, say my prayers, and go to sleep.
THE RETURN
, ( Continued from Page 9) up, the stranger was gone. Jerome wondered for a moment if he had even been there. He looked closely at the man's face on the canvas. There was a kindly smile in the eyes and on the lips.
"Am I mad?" the painter muttered, as he reached out his hand to uncover the master's portrait. But the curtain was already drawn aside, and the stranger's face was the face of I van-but the eyes no longer wore their questioning, haunting stare.
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BLUE RIBBON BABY
(Continued from Page 1S) get my ducks in a row without success. Lee was up to something, but nobody knew what.
At four o'clock that afternoon Lee finished his fifth 'phone call of the day. Hanging up the receiver, he ran to his room, grabbed his beribboned thesis and walked briskly out into the street-whistling "Joy to the World, the Lord Has Come." I, for one, was afraid he was suffering mentally.
At five-thirty he returned. "I would like to wager," he shouted from the hall, "five dollars that I get my degree."
Joe Ligon, the hardest nut in the house to crack on a bet, pushed to the front. "What's that?" he asked.
"I," repeated Lee, "wish to wager five dollars that "
"Where have you been?" I interrupted.
"I," he said, "I have been to the home of Doctor J. P. M. Rasey on Colton Road."
"Hasey's," we gasped, "thought you all were on the outs."
"We were," said Jim. His twinkling eyes told me there was some snag in these proceedings. "But we aren't any more."
"What happened?" I inquired.
"Mrs. Rasey has just presented her spouse with his first nine pound, bouncing, baby boy, J. P. M. Rasey, Jr."
"How do you know?" we fired.
"I have been expecting, nay praying, that it would happen for the last few days. Today the happy event came to pass. Luckily catching the Doctor at home I presented my paper, was asked into the house, and fed for an hour on how much the baby resembled his father. Doctor Rasey is a charming gentleman. He has invited me to come see the young scion as soon as he is brought over from the hospital."
The astonishment was plain on every face. Personally, I harked back to the conversation, part of which I overheard. "Have you heard about Doctor Rasey and his wife ."
True enough, the thesis was marked Band Lee showed to his immediate friends the astounding truth that the blue ribbon had not been untied.
.,
DECADE
( Continued from Page 10) for State? Gee, you were tight that night, but you deserved it maybe, after the way you ripped holes in Villa Vista's line that day, and after your four long years of training and work. Anyway, you crashed into me, and when I decided to be a good sport and dance with you, you dragged me behind a potted palm-yes, even the palms were potted-and wanted to kiss me."
"How tragic," he moaned. "But tell me, Prom Girl, how do you happen to be here'? Had you held this post once on a time, the student body in toto would have taken up quarters in the hostelry and proceeded to smoke themselves to death."
"One must live, you know. And then, here there is always the chance that some wraith of other years may come drifting by. But they never come, 'Mudhorse'until you. Did you ever think about wraiths-but, of course, you didn't, you're too healthy. But I have. Campus wraiths, that's what they are. So often I see a face the very image of one of those who have struck their tents and vanished, lo, these many moons.
"Only yesterday a mop of fiery hair and a stupendous grin strutted through the lobby, and I barely stopped myself from shouting, 'It's been a long time since "Red" Alerton marched away with his company defying heaven with their "What the Hell Do We Care Now!"'
"Bill, I often wonder if old ghosts do ever blow around up there in the ivy, peeping in through the window and longing for a hand of poker or a shot of corn. I wonder if some imaginative Senior ever thinks to glance over his shoulder and catch them at their watching. Jack Leslie could have written an opus on the strength
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of it. Maybe he saw faces looking at him, funny old fellows with much mustaches and schooners of ale.
"And I wonder if any April an old, lost breeze plays about the casements of the Gym, whispering from memory the words to 'Poor Butterfly,' and 'Tripoli,' and 'Madelon' ."
"Prom Girl," said Bill, his flippant words like a mask to the tenderness of his voice, "you talk just like somebody's grandmother. What do you know of those things, child? That was before the War."
"Yes, but it was my war too, Bill. Why, look at the crows' feet 'round my eyes-the prints of the horrible marching years."
"I see only two lovely pools of blue, in whose depths a man might lose himself and be glad."
"But you're laughing at me," she said, "just as you laughed that night."
Bill's hand went out and his fingertips touched her sleeve, almost reverently.
"Prom Girl," he began, "do you remember that night, when, my evil designs thwarted, I turned away-do you remember the particularly pointed insult that your lips gave me instead of what I desired?"
"Ah," she murmured, "your memory begins to improve."
"You said," finished Bill, "that you would kiss me when Villa Vista beat State-and that was surely the most unkind cut of all. In fact, I think it required at least three drinks to appease my outraged pride."
"But Bill," she whispered, "today ."
Bill's eyes brightened suddenly, as he saw again a football almost touching the goal line-almost, but not quite. A faint blush played about the girl's ears, but her own blue eyes deepened until Bill thought them lovelier than ever.
"Today" he agreed.
BOOK REVIEWS
(Continued from Page 18)
is Real, Strange Interlude and Prospectus, the chapter which closes the book.
Mr. Overton has got from his material all that he could within the space permitted him, and the little book is admirably done. Even then, however, he had difficulty with his hour limit. For only a very swift reader can read adequately one hundred and fifty-five pages ( even though they are small) in an hour's time. The book deserves two hours and they will be hours well spent.
