Business Man ager 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
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EDITORIALS
aOW what about this downrightly Freudian smack in our contemporary Westhampton literature? Our precise young ladies of yore speak presently of the advanced woman; know with a degree of lucidity their Schopenhauer, Spinoza, and Russell; discuss freely, frequently, and frenziedly the good Mr. Ellis, this last without noticeable equivocation. These outward displays please us no end; this removing of the pedestal and the installation of the new single standard allows any girl to take Sex In Civilization from the library without being eyed by the attendants and called naughty.
It is not this external manifestation which interests us at present; this thing at our elbow, red and green like a Freudian complex, apparently is jeering at us and slapping his cerebral hemispheres in high glee. We are frankly worried. One second the answer is within -our grasp, the next it slips through our clutching fingers, like cream from a chocolate eclair. Are our proper young ladies fully
we must believe after Huysmans, the nunnery on Tower Hill is muchly in need of a good exorcist.
-L. N. B.
E begin to see the light--or do we? Have we come to a realization of the value of comprehensive social activity-or are we blissful victims of that invisible force widely known as impulse? At any rate, we have grasped the proverbial bull by his horns, and having thrown him are now sitting gallantly upon him and triumphantly waving our banners.
The Westhampton Prom was a success. We have done well with our first actual attempt at centralization, and the point to be made is that we also might do well to concentrate time, money and expenditure of energy on other similar efforts, rather than on a number of smaller and less significant contributions to the social life of the college. The mildly defiant, finger-in-the-mouth attitude aware of the stir they have been causing with their doubtful symbolism and innocentlysuggestive phraseology? Just what fact, or facts, are causing the arousal of these subconscious ideas and expressions? It has been going on for two years now to our knowledge.
Any attempt to explain would lead us into a number of seductive issues to which ?either time nor space lends itself. It can only be one or aUof three things ; professors, much reading, indigestion. If
Cum Lacrimis
TABLE of CONTENTS
The Scarf, Johnnie Adams
A Philological Protest, Cttthbert W hoosis Incubus, Evelyn Duncan
Terrors of the Non-Existent, Frances Rawlings IO Sketches of Thomas Nelson Page's Country, Rttth Cox
which has permeated the atmosphere of the college campus has somewhat decreased since the inner maelstrom has found its gentle outlet-the second-best. Faculty and friends have enjoyed and appreciate our valiant little stepping-stone. Our work will stand; it is permanent and durable. In itself it is strength, for it is a marked victory over frustration. "We shall be free!" is the whoop and holler in answer to the staunch, historical "They
shall not
-D. J. G.
Cum Lacrimis
This sound of swirling dervishes Comes to me from beyond the banked hill Where hamadryads sport, Seduced by the thin frenzy of wailing Bacchanals.
Break me a spray of lilac With which to combat the marching fury Of cleaved gargoyles-the ebon files Of bastard phantoms. I am too frail a reed For the wind to blow through prettily.
You ask me why I do not pull free of the sargassoWhy I stagnate under the salient bridges And welter in the sleazy flotsam. You ask me this, vapidly, holding out to me A spray of lilac.
The Scarf
JOHNNIE ADAMS
was a long way from the village to the first little brick house that stood just off the road in a g rove of tall tree s that looked black again st the snow. It seemed longer than ever today for John as he made his way slowly over t he cru sty w hitene ss A north wind, heavy with the cuttin g snow, was drivin g straight into his face. It would be dar k before he re a ched home.
" I shouldn't have waited for the mail, I suppose," he said, "but I've never mi ssed giving Mary a birthday present yet. Oh, I'll be all ri ght when I get in sight of the house and can see the smoke from the chimney." His stiff, big lips tried to smile cheerfully, but he was terribly afraid, afraid for himself, afraid for Mary. Already he found him self unable to bend his fingers in his pockets, already his knees were unsteady and stiff. At last, the smoke! He threw back his head to greet it joyfully, but the wind choked him and he bent his head again. At every step he wanted to look to see if there were a light in the south window, but he dared not raise his head. " It's better after all to think it might be there than to look and find it's not," he thought. He passed from the shadow of the last great hill that hung above him like a massive black ghost.
The old trees were sweeping low as he walked beneath them. He looked like them, bent with the weight of the snow, swaying with each fierce gust of driving wind. He could almost feel the warmth of the house as he neared it. He felt for the one low step that leads to the short boardwalk. As he did so, he caught a glimpse of Mary. She h ad the one lamp in the kitchen with her, but had put a candle in the window for him. He tried to call; the wind screamed back at him and snatched the sound away. As his foot touched the step, he felt himself slipping, slipping into the still, deep drift. His numb fingers slid over the ice-coated door noiselessly.
Mary was at the window, shading her eyes with one hand, and with the other feeling in her pocket for her handkerchief. Her throat ached; why was she crying? Of course, John would be all right. It wasn't quite dark yet.
"It's horribly cold," she said as her forehead touched the icy window-pane. She turned back into the kitchen
and made a nervous pretense of smoothing the tablecloth. At last she wandered back into the bedroom. It felt curiously cold here, too, and she went to get a log from the pile in the corner. One, two, three, four. She counted them slowly. Four large ones for the fireplace and several small ones for the cookstove. Poor John; she should have brought in some wood before the storm came. She wondered if she could slip out now and get some. John would be cold when he came. She was at the window again. The tall old trees were no longer visible against the snow ; all was darkness now. She could not even see the little fir tree at the edge of the yard. And John was somewhere in that darknes s and mass of piling snow.
"It's awfully cold around the foot of Tucker's Hill," she said. "If John can make it around there before ... before he gets too cold . . ." She spoke softly as if a child were asleep in the room. A gust of wind, struggling between the frame and glass, almost blew out the candle that she held above her head, and she lowered it again.
Just as Mary raised the candle, John opened his eyes and saw the slender bar of yellow light against the snow. "I knew I'd get here before dark," he said. "Mary will open the door in a moment, and then " He was slipping into the snow. "In just a moment " he said. How wonderful to be inside again with the fireplace, the lamp, and Mary. He was too warm to move, he'd wait just a moment.
Mary turned the handle of the door. She had on her coat and hat, but she hesitated. "I can't go out, I can't. I'd never come back. The night would kill me as it's killing John. I know he's dying somewhere out in this awful blackness." She stood there trying to make herself feel that John was all right.
"I'll wait awhile, maybe the wind will let up a bit, then I'll J go." She turned the key, and went back to the fire.
The wind did not stop. It came across the frozen hill, through the low, dragging trees, and hurled its awful breath against the house. It blew the fir tree to the ground; 't snatched the snow from a dark object that lay on the ~oorstep. Mary heard it padding about t~e ~ouse lik_ea moaning wolf that sometimes brushed his sides against the walls. She shuddered; there were three logs left; she put one on the fire and sat down to watch the blue flames
(Continued on Page 20)
Rum: A Philological Protest
By CUTHBERT WHOOSIS
Rum I take to be the name which unwashed moralists apply alike to the product distilled from molasses and the noblest juices of the vineyard. Burgundy "in all its sunset glow" is rum. Champagne, "the foaming wine of Eastern France," is rum.
-0. W. Holmes, Autocrat, viii.
ND corn likker is rum, and gin is rum, W~!ltl~I and absinthe is rum, and beer is rum, and benedictine is rum . . . and not only to the moralists, washed or unwashed, but to all of us. Nobility, gentry, and proletaire, speak glibly of rum runners and Rum Row, whereas even Mr. Mellon knows that rum, itself, is but a small item in the traffic off the Jersey Flats, out of Nassau, or through the Great Lakes. All of which make the persisting colloquial usage a source of no little annoyance to those few souls still possessing a real reverence and an honest admiration for thi~ staunchest of spirits.
A hasty inspection of the question might incline one to consider it simply a matter of euphony, the result of man's incurable love for smooth, alliterative phrases: rum runners, Rum Row, and ( in the British Army) rum ration. Yet, why do we not have such melodic figures as Gin Garden, Scotch Street, or Brandy Boulevard? Or so soothing an arrangement of syllables as The Coast of Cognac and Absinthe Alley? No, the thing goes deeper than phonetics, deeper, even, than comparative philology. It is a matter of rank prejudice; a prejudice not easily defended.
In the good old days of blue ribbons and temperance pledges (how proudly you signed the little white card after your first temperance lectures; you were nine years old and possessed a signature of no mean distinction) in those far-off days when the burley head of John Barleycorn was drooping beneath the tomahawk of Carrie Nation, to the shouts of the W. C. T. U. and the picturesque, but unsanitary, fluttering of the Chatauqua Salute - in those lost days, I say, what lone syllable symbolized in the American consciousness the entire tribe of alcoholic fluids? What single word was employed to express the deepest loathing, the greatest hatred, the utmost horror for all such unholy beverages? Rum! That was it-rum. Demon Rum! Aye, they called him Demon Rum. Nor can I tell you why. Was he more evil than his fellows?
By no means. And yet were the sins of father, brother, sister, mother visited upon his head. His sonorous little name, in some unaccountable fashion, was chosen as the point of attack for the maledictions of a thirstless people. All the high crimes and misdemeanors which could be traced to the door of any form of alcohol were conveniently summed up as the ravages of Demon Rum. No other title carried so great a degree of opprobium, John Barleycorn being more or less a friendly, tolerant sort of greeting, while Booze remained chiefly in the realm of comedy. When Demon Rum was mentioned, however, no doubts were entertained as to just what was meant. This was the summum bonum of all alcoholic evil, and immediately found place in your mind alongside of Nero, Mephistopheles, and of late years, Emperor William of Germany.
I make no defense of rum as against Coca-Colas, iced tea, or other such mild poisons. It is against his more deadly brethren and their philological immunity that I prepare this brief. Of all strong drink, from the potent brew of Father Noah to the most recent concoction of synthetic gin, none has served mankind so faithfully as has rum-and none has been more shamefully wronged. For every keg of rum which has soothed man's woes, an ocean of whiskey, and brandy, and absinthe has burned human esophogi. Yet must rum, Demon Rum they call him, bear the odium of it all. Is this justice?
I am aware that much can be said against rum. In fact, I know that much has been said. On the other hand, however, there are a few things which can be said in its favor, and it is these things which I propose to note. Strangely enough, no one has ever had a kind word for rum. Whiskey we have tolerated for years, both as a capital remedy in case of snakebite and as an indispensable aid in the treatment of influenza. But rum was pirates' food, and, as such, banished from the family chest. And still, all this while, in the two noblest fields of human endeavor, rum-poor, outlawed rum-was doing a Trojan's work. "What," you exclaim, "the noblest endeavors of man?" Aye, the noblest endeavors of man-by the world's estimate, remember, not mine. It is of war I speak, and the going down to sea in ships.
On chill, breathless dawns, crouching tense upon the fire-step, looking out into the mist which hides the barbwire-what it is the soldier needs? A cup of tepid cocoa from the hands of a "Y" Secretary mincing down the
duckboards? A couple of doughnuts from the pink fingers of a Salvation Army lass? No, suh ! What he wants is rum. And it's rum that Tommy Atkins gets-(Britain is a wise old lady )-a stiff, generous swig of burning rum that steals his breath away so that he can scarcely gasp, "Thank you, sir," as the lieutenant hurries down the trench. But after that it will not seem quite so lonely out there where the mist is rising . . . where a certain Grim Reaper is lurking.
"But," you protest, "our fathers had no stimulant. Why should our sons need one?" Ah, but your fathers did have a stimulant. Many, many of them. And all stouter allies than rum. Your fathers fought ere ever the color was taken from battle. There were drums, then, and trumpets, and the comforting contact of fellowmen. Battalions marched as on parade, and the ranks dressed on the colors. The colors! What greater stimulus would you? And the roll of a heady drum? And the clear, thin call of shrill bugles? . . . All these, your fathers had, and, too, the mad drunkenness of charging cavalry.
That was yesteryear. Today: a line of dismal ditches in a muddy field. No banners, no trumpets, no stirring rattle of an ass's hide. Monotony. Grey, dull monotony. Loneliness. And when the thin line moves out at daybreak-ten long paces between each weary man-no flashing sabres clear the way. A curtain of whining steel leaps on ahead another runs down to meet it.
So now that you've taken the color from war, now that efficiency has supplanted romance, will you, begrudge the lad his cup of friendly rum? It is a poor substitute, perhaps, for shouts, and bunting, and the clang of the brasses, but it helps. And if you must send tall lads down into hell it is only just that you send him a demon, some kind, friendly demon to show him through the shadows. Take Ypres, for instance. We all remember Ypres. PAGE SEVEN
("Wipers!" Tommy called it, "Wipers.") and we remember, too. And yet, I'm afraid we've all forgotten Ypres. No matter-those chaps at Ypres, those weary, wide-eyed creatures whose flesh made a wall about these muddy shambles, surely, they were a little more than men. And the immortality which is theirs, this immortality so bitterly earned, is in no wise dimmed because a few kegs of rum, in the blacker moments, helped them through. Not whiskey they wanted, nor ale, nor tea, but rum. And every night when the limbers rolled, and water and meat and bread were sneaked up to the outposts, rum was not forgotten. Frozen feet must be warmed, and flagg in g hearts lashed up. But the dear ladies of the temperance unions and the brethren, sitting by warm fires, nibbling toast and tea, praying for victory and the poor soldier's soul, did they remember to utter a kind word for the cheery little demon so valiantly carrying on in Flanders?
Much more can be said for rum. Of ships, for instance. Tall, many-masted vessels plunging through North Atlantic winters, with helmsmen at the wheels, halffrozen, heavy-eyed, sick at heart--cheered by a pannikin of rum. But here we must rest our case. And, after all, what is our case? That rum, per se, is an admirable, a praiseworthy institution. In a measure, yes. There are cases-we mentioned a few-where rum has no substitute. But this is not the point we wish to stress. We would direct attention to the cruel irony of a popular tongue. Of all spiritous liquors which have served mankind for better or for worse, none has been of true value, none has been less harmful, none has deserved more at the hands of men than has rum. And yet, what have we done? To designate the lowest stage of alcoholic degradation, to express the greatest detestation of ardent spirits, we use the very name of this warrior's mead. "Rum," we hiss, "Demon Rum."
Incubus
A
Freudian Fantasia
By EVELYN DUNCAN
HE moon was very bright and pale that night. I could not sleep so I sat by the window and waited for the mist to climb up and veil his ugly face, leering there at me. But it would not. It stayed and flirted with the willows on the river bank. He ruled the sky, blotting out the stars. Lovely diamond stars covered with cheap tinsel. He stalked on across the sky until he got to the tall pine outside my window, then he developed arms and legs like some monstrous, grotesque frog and swung himself down to the window sill.
"Hello, earth maiden," said he, "come out and walk with me. See? I left a path right back to my shell."
And so he had. There was a broad greenish path, glittering with phosphorescent light, from the top of the pine to the shrivelled shell where the man had lived. I would not go, so he sat cross-legged on the window sill and talked to me.
He had a round smooth face and a round smooth head all shiny greenish gold. His head was surrounded with a rainbow down-like hair, and yet like mist. His eyes were big and green and very still, dead still like a lake when there is no wind. His body was very long, lovely and lithe, too. It swayed and rippled this way and that in a weird blithery dance, changing its form continuously. His legs were folded under him. His arms swayed with his body, but he held on to the path he had made with his slim green right hand.
He smiled at me most winningly, swaying, always swaying. A cool, sweet breath exuded from him, soft as mist, but dry and smelling of faint, far exotic mysteries.
"You are strange," he said, "all pink and white. I never saw an earth maiden before. How still you are! Only your lips are alive. I don't like stillness. Dance for me or I shall be afraid."
"But I cannot dance without music," I replied, "I am not fortunate enough to have rhythm inside me."
He waved his left arm. The air began to vibrate softly and sounds, so ethereal and thin, crept out of the sky above, that my soul oozed out of my body like smoke. It turned above my head into a soft many colored mass, striped palest grey for long dead sorrows, blue for joy,
green for budding hope and lavendar for kindliness and warm bright gold for love. There were black spots, too, for my sins, but they hid themselves quickly. The music became more intense as the black spots waved and the colors glowed and flamed. Slowly it revolved around me, and as it moved I turned with it, stretching my hands to the shining wonder. Deeply, sweetly basking in the glow. Swiftly, faster, brighter, whirling, turning in an ecstacy of freedom. Music glowing. Tune and rhythm, sound and sight blending, moving, seeping, flowing into the broad, bright path to the moon, gleaming cold and strange, glittering, polished metal, smooth and alluring. The moon man laughed, a deep rich roll. My soul leaped up and touched the path, then it rolled into the long green palm of the moon man.
"Give me back my soul, moon man. Give me my lovely soul, my lovely, glowing soul."
Again he laughed, like the roll of a hollow drum. He squeezed my soul in his long green hand.
"It's alive," he cried, "I'll kill it. Slowly I'll strangle it. Tear out the jo_y. Tear out the love. Wipe out the kindliness. Cut the hope. Then I'll be human. Then you'll be a mooQ maiden. See, if I cast your sins on the path you must follow, follow always up to the pale cold moon."
He tore and he tore. My poor soul gasped. Each shining thread of joy stretched out to me and I stretched out to it. Joy was slipping, going, falling. A black spot came, the music waned. Then far, far down in the sky a faint red streak appeared behind the hill. The path to the moon was wending thin, for the moon had traveled a long way off.
The moon man tore my sin from the roots of my soul. Laughing he stretched to cast it on the path, then with a shriek he flung it to the floor.
"The day," he wailed, "the scorching loathsome day, has come to sicken me and steal the sky."
He fled up the crumbling path. My sin lay at my feet, staring with a bright red eye, then slowly faded in the rising sun. My soul crept back into my body again. But half my joy went in tatters to the moon, for now I quake to look upon the night.
Love Song
By VALERIE LE MASURIER
RAU RITTER had to lean forward to see the music; her eyes were not so good now as they used to be and the lines and staffs were blotted and the paper yellow and mottled with age. She had propped the old music book up in front of her on the massive table and she sat before it, one foot resting on a tiny footstool as though it were the pedal of a spinnet. In her arms she held a graceful instrument-a mandolin which she strummed thoughtfully. The sunlight poured in and the lattice window broke it up into little diamonds of light and shadow.
Her's might have been a charming pose, there in the little circle of light; but it wasn't. The frau was undeniably plump, and though her skin still held much of the color and texture of a young woman's, her chin had lost its firmness and verged into her soft neck. Her hair, which was rather elaborately arranged in little corkscrew curls on either side of her round face, was beginning to gray a little. Her green silk frock was rather tight. Her eyes were strained looking; she held them close to the music. She had once been the town beauty. She was now a respectable citizeness, wife of the very respectable citizen, Herr Ritter. One could look at her and tell that respectability had been inevitable for her just as the necessity for larger stays each year and more green silk. Ritter was fond of green.
She continued to finger the strings, drawing forth tingling, vibrating notes. And as she played she sang. It was a strange thing, her voice; it had such a youthful vigorous quality, a warm rhythm. But the stranger thing was her song. It was a love song! A glowing, throbbing song! As she sang it she thought of all the adventurous things she had wanted to do, of the mysterious beauties she had wanted to see. For this little while she could forget her exquisitely ordered household, her stolid fat husband, and her stolid fat chidren. Her voice held a
vague yearning and a faint challenge. Here was a glimpse of romance lost.
In the narrow street that wound crookedly beneath the over-hanging cornices, young Hans, the bootmaker's son, had stopped to listen to the clear voice that floated from the lattice opposite. Young Hans was not a person who analyzed his feelings. He could not have told you why he liked the voice or the song. He simply liked them. He had a satisfied, warm feeling. It made him think of the occasional little longings he had to leave the little town and gd seeking his fortune like the youth in a Grimm's fairy tale.
He continued to stand there listening. The song had a tantalizing lilt. Through the window he could see bobbing curls and sun-shadowed green silk.
For once in his deliberate life he acted on impulse. Crossing the street he knocked at the door and stood waiting, rather frightened at such indiscretion. Finally the door was opened. Young Hans stood surprised and abashed, saying nothing and holding his mouth open in a silly fashion. The woman was a fat person in a tight green silk dress. She was, why she was almost old! The woman regarded him inquisitively, puzzled that he stood there saying nothing. At last she inquired slowly, "You wanted to see my husband, perhaps. Yes? Well, he's not here now. If you would , perhaps call another time."
. . . Young Hans quickly mumbled something like assent, and gratefully accepted the closing of the door.
Frau Ritter returned to the room where the sun fell in diamonds. All the radiance seemed burned out of her. She put the old music and the magic instrument tenderly away. It was best so. It was hard on her eyes and Ritter would not understand interest in a love song, in fine fragrant cheese. Yes, but not in a sentimental tune. Romance for her had knocked and then passed on.
Young Hans walked placidly toward his father's shop. He whistled contentedly ( a bit off tune) a lilting melody, the love song. But he was thinking of boots.
Terrors of the Non-Existent
FRANCES RAWLINGS
HEN thoughts won't come and your soul seems disgusted with you and has gone to sleep as though waiting for the death of a body that would release it then you are approaching the nonexistent. And life is interested only in those who catch the drop of dew on an apple blossom as the tear of nature for the mysterious simplicity that evades the eyes of men who indulge in subterfuges; that is non-existence.
Thoughts are born as little children and they must grow up. But children themselves are rarely reared toward true 1 development. They grow up the best they can and they take their lives as freely as the flowers as though from the clouds that cast some gift absorbed from a soul passing upward through the skies to that place where space is infinity and solitude which expands loses its oppressiveness and becomes familiar and a state with which to be intimate-it passes in a drop of rain or falls from a moonbeam darted through the mists of a cloud. I am interested in living that is sure as lightning and touches of life mysteries. And as little children, we people, a land of non-existence and become terrified that it is not so. It is the terror of one's very self and much terror of death-for failure to live in life implies failure to die in death, and much is it needful for the death of many things. Terror is the office of death. It's a much unknown life and a death circled about by self-deception and improved thougths--the ghosts of life-for no one lives except in the reality and truth of his thoughts.
But what of the non-existence-the terror as calm as the flight of a cloud not heavy with rain-that is the setting of many disappointments. Life itself is concerned with good if we believe what we are told, but it is quite probable that those who can believe this are those to whom life has offered good as the reward of being that person. Therefore I conclude that when life is evil, it is non-existent-nothing. Justice lies as a basis of all things, but there is small compensation for anything. Justice is so positive that humanity rarely groups it, but comforts itself by a belief in compensations. However, most people who wonder about such trifles are old enough to think for themselves. I can't and don't. For me life marks out little so far-a promising beginning and a short spring is over ; a glimpse of ideals and a shorter summer is
over; a rapid realization and the shortest autumn is over; a far-reaching future and the longest winter is over. Then you may live years in yearning. Nothing more than illuston. And although I know that that is not true, I can see nothing more. Life is vague--some fog with nothing in view and none other wandering in the same maze. But words mean little (although they do value in many trying circumstances). And terrors and non-existence and punishment and rewards are valued or not valued just the same. Perhaps you, too, see the mockery of life. No jewel is as valuable as that which we ourselves throw back into the baffling haze of life just beyond our reach. Nothing is so essential as nevermore.
Terrors are born of harrassed imaginations. For it is then that the trifles of one passing day can confuse and distant an equilibrium not balanced by ideals, but few hard details. A rest from the rush is needed to lay the terrors of the non-existent.
Ideals are things to talk about and dream of-if dreaming is of value to you, though clear-cut thinking will attain more-but ideals are not to be realities. Youth seeks and then disdains what seemed gold, but does youth ever find the gold that entices its unawakened thoughts? Are apples good or bad ? ( Remember the deception of brilliant red skin.)
Knowledge is no safeguard against the non-existent. Knowledge is in truth a tree-it is grown, mature, and something of the past, not without crawling, concealing vines and fruit both good and bad, and its caterpillar webs which only thoughts as delicate as hand tinted glass can burn away. But a life that drudges makes minds mechanical and void of thoughts. It is the thoughts that make the tree of life beautiful like stars seen through pine trees or candles on a Christmas tree.
One great terror of the non-existent is dealing with that which is unknown. And words are heated over a low burning candle in a frenzied effort to give them the fires of meteors made red hot by linking through space and rubbing against all elements. Normalcy is the zenith which marks the absurdity of terrors and the non-existent. For he, who is normal, is at harmony with the universe, and peace and power are fitting rewards-the peace of having given that which is needed rather than what is desired and often deceived. Such a vastness is supposition. (Continued on Page 22)
Further Sketches of Thomas Nelson Page's Country as Remembered by a College Student
By RUTH Cox
UCH ! Anyone who would be so interested in the blue foxglove, all freckled inside, that he would clumsily strike his foot against a rock. Just because the garden is like a rainbow shattered into plots and borders, and streaming down over trellises, that's no reason for such stupid clumsiness. That throb in the end of my toe! It's like something I've felt before-something quite definite. Ohl am a little child again, feeling the cool delight of powdered-dust-of- Virginia-roads- between-the-toes. My child's mind is dreaming child-dreams, as fresh and bright and poignant as a crystal dewdrop on a Ragged Robin's blue. And the cool, powdered dust that makes you pucker your mouth, sifts and sifts as soft as talcum powder. Oh goodness, I knew I'd hit one of those smooth little rocks all hidden in the cool yellow dust, and now the front of my toe is all knocked off. But it's cool on the front of my toe--cool, soft dust, and cool, clear dreams.
A little wooden bridge spanned it, flung across so carelessly and easily that you forgot it was a bridge meant to cross from one side to the other. Rather it was a pleasant arch especially made for the mill stream to flow beneath. To the left of the bridge was a tall narrow white-washed flour mill on a little rocky hill, and reached by a slight rocky road. The mill is a wonderful place. Great wide wheels and bands whirl, and giant trays sift up and down. But the flour is the most fun-sifting fine like star dust all over the building. You should never wear shoes in the mill, 'cause then you can't feel the flour dust soft under your feet. Mr. Millman never says much, only a few words to my grandfather. I think he can't talk because he's so covered with flour dust that he's afraid he might blow some off if he speaks too loud. When my grandfather has gotten a bag of flour, we get in the buggy and go rocking down the hill again. We pause on the bridge while Bess nibbles grass, and watch the great mill wheel turn and turn and turn. Each time it turns, it lifts up a paddle wheel of water and spills it over again-to run out into the mill stream. Out it runs, over big smooth-worn rocks that you could walk along if only your legs were as long as grandfather's. And the water purls
down the rocks as they get smaller and smaller until it slips noiselessly under the bridge.
I picked up a copy of Thomas Nelson Page's In Ole Virginia, and with Marse Chan I remembered the "ole Virginia" I knew. I can see the old house that rambled back into two additions, set in an impulsive yard. The front yard was semi-circular with three grass bushes breaking through the green of the crescent with the gold of their brown. On the right side was a horse rack, all stubbled and knotty like the tree that made it. It was close up under a great oak, near enough so that we could climb from the top of the horse rack onto the lowest branch. On both sides of the yard there were flowers-rose bushes and hollyhocks, all sorts of flowers on stands that you could walk up. I never knew the names of any of those except the geraniums. Way, way back from the house was a big red-roofed barn full to complacency with brown-gold hay, and big square holes in the floor, that you watched for lest you fall down and land on a horse's head. There was a silo, a grain barn, a pasture for the cows-thick with trees and dim and strange underneath. But most of all I liked the apple orchard. If you ran fast enough you could reach your very special tree and sit in your very special tree-seat. When it was time for your dream world to feast, you might pluck a healthy green-streaked apple, and swinging your feet, free from the dust of people too close, lazy in the knowledge of a summer vacation day, you could dream into the heart of Eternity-into Life-into Death, with your child dreams. * * * * *
Oh, I had almost forgotten. I guess the memory of the attic was tucked up under the eaves of my mind, like the little attic I almost forgot. Way up it was-a strange still space under the sloping roof. You opened the door quickly when you went in, and then, as still as the leaves on the great oak just before a breeze quickens them, you close the door, and smile an eager smile. There's that little oaken cradle tipping to be rocked. And the squat ornate trunk, concealing the delight of its contents. But best of all-where is it-there behind the whatnot is the bicycle. You know, it's one of those queer kind with a giant wheel and a little fairy wheel, and a seat
for you in the middle. It is such a jolly dear thing that you always want to laugh and laugh when you see it. Well, there is just about time to look at all the pictures once before dinner. The one nicest thing about going to dinner is stopping on the back veranda to drink cool wellwater from a smooth round gourd dipper.
That night when we went to bed the clouds were putting on deep mourning. I always have disapproved of mourning. I was sleeping in the four-poster walnut, downstairs. About two o'clock in the morning the rumbles overhead, that sounded as if God were having housemoving, and the sudden white heats of light frightened me into wakefulness. The dark periods between were so frightfully deep, and you just hunched all up and hoped you wouldn't jump at the next crash. But you did wish it would stop. Then it came. It was too big to realize at the time. You had to remember it. The sound of it was like the splinter and crash of a tall wooden structure, and the scream of a human being hurtling down through unsolid space. A painful gasp of silence followed. Then as, though flung by magic, the house was alive with hurrying feet, and low excited voices, and quiet commands. Through the window, over the garden fence, beyond the vineyard and the apple orchard, a maple tree offered a last burnt-offering-the incense of a flame that burnt out its heart. At the same time a swift red flame leapt from the red-roofed barn. By the time the women had assembled all the milk pails and kettles and pots and buckets, men began streaming in from all over the countryside. Bringing buckets and pails, running, they came from miles around-these Virginia gentlemen who made friends' interests their own. I can see them now running and stumbling from the barn back to the house, carrying bucket after bucket. Aunt Vic--our old cook (she must have been at least a hundred years old) carried a milk pail with a duck floating serenely on the top. The strange thing was I hadn't seen grandfather at all. Before long, all the water was used on surrounding buildings to save them. The barn was gone. And still grandfather was not there. I remembered him muttering something about horses, when everyone in the house first quivered into activity. The fire was over-dark figures of men clung in knots around the house and what was the barn. The silence that signifies mysterious and awful things was broken. Men could talk now. Then I saw my grandfather turn to fasten the gate, and advance toward the house. With a child's eager interest, I scanned his face. Placing his blackened hand on my head, and looking down at me with the smile I have seen only on the faces of those I love for their
great humanity, he said, "Dolly, every horse was saved." He always called me "Dolly"-and I'm sure he knew my real name.
Later on in the long day, that seemed quite as long as Sundays, we walked down to the barn, only it wasn't a barn any longer. There was only a deep u gly hole in the ground. Golden hay, holes where you looked down on proud horses' heads, carriages and wa g ons, leather trappings-all was gone, and only the blackened gash of the earth and the strong stench of ugly annihilation marked the spot where clean, lovely thin g s had been. By the side of the deep pit, the charred ember of a maple tree silhouetted upthrust stumps against the blue of Virginia sky. I have never to this day heard my grandfather comment on his loss. But I can see him clearly as he goes among his horses stroking them, and I wouldn't be surprised if he didn't call them "Dolly" when he talked to them.
This year I went back, but not to sit on the branches of an apple tree, not to ransack the hiddened delights of a musty attic, not to watch the destruction of gold-brown hay. This time, like that night, there were crowds of people, but they were not running with pails of water. They were quiet, it is true, only it was a quiet like the low whispering of leaves in an autumn twilight. We went to the little chapel under the trees, where the little oak benches are too close together, and where the little pump organ wheezes out of time with the home-made choir. It wheezes, too. The preacher had a soft, quiet voice, as unhurried as his life. And I was glad that he said only a few words, because what he wanted to say was too vast for a man to speak out loud. The little chapel was too little for the thoughts and the memories that crowded it.
Then it was over. Kind friends crowded around to talk to mother. Many of them looked like they did long ago when I walked through the powdered dust of Virginia roads. Then there came an old bent figure with a cane. So old she looked I wondered she didn't dissolve and mingle with that she walked on. "Miss Mable, howz you dez days, ma'am? Law, chile, you ain't dat baby I hel' in my han's, is you? You sho' is growed. She looks jes' lak you, Miss Mable. Dat she do!" and I remembered Aunt Vic holding up little soft pillow puffs of baby chickens for me to see-worlds ago.
It was all over. People stood in knots and talked. White knots and colored knots they were-knots of those ( Continued on Page 23)
A Sketch
J. L. HART
HAD had a busy day at the custom house getting my luggage through inspection and now that evening was drawing on the idea of a quiet spot in some restaurant with an hour's rest or so appealed to me. New York was a ,city that I had never known but in spots. Some places were regular haunts of mine, while the city at large was a closed book.
Never much of an adventurer when it came to choosing eating places I had no other thought than to go to Marchanti's. There I knew good food could be procured and intelligent service. And perhaps Alvarez, the Argentine head waiter, was still there-it was always my pleasure to practice my Spanish with him.
It was just a short stroll from the hotel where I was staying to Marchanti's and I was still thinking of Alvarez when I reached the restaurant. Nothing seemed changed since I had been there, almost a year before, even Alvarez was standing at the first table, seemingly pleased with the world. The same old Alvarez, though perhaps a little stouter-immaculately dressed in his usual black and white, with his shiny black hair neatly combed and his ruddy face, from which shined deep brown eyes, smilingly welcoming all the guests-time could change him little.
His face beamed as he came forward to show me my accustomed table. A little table with room enough for two, far over in a corner, near some palms, where I could inconspiciously see as I ate, the comings and goings of , the patrons. Having taken my seat, I consulted the menu and with Alvarez' help ordered a light supper.
He came back after giving the order, seemingly anxious to talk to me. He was all abrim with something, like a little child who has something to tell you. I enjoyed hearing his easy flow of Spanish and being in the mood for conversation began drawing him out.
"Anything happened since I have been gone, Alvarez?"
"I have big surprise for you, sir. Mr. Marchanti thinks he is getting old. He likes the way I work for him, now fifteen years. Tomorrow he is going to take me into partnership with him," and his eyes shone with pride as he spoke of his success.
Alvarez had come over to this country from Argentina sixteen years ago, when just a young man. Soon after he
had gotten a job with Marchanti in his newly opened restaurant and by his merit had in a few years lifted himself to head waiter, and now he was to be partner. I was glad for my friend as I knew he deserved his well earned good fortune.
"I also have a surprise for you, Alvarez. You know you spoke to me about looking up your mother if I ever went through Trelew, while in Argentina. I was there just a few months ago and saw her."
Alvarez was all questions. How did she look? Was she aging much? Did she get the money he sent her? Was she contented and happy?
I pictured to him his old mother in the little store where he had worked when at home and how she had been eager to get news from him, how she was making well with the little store, and didn't seem to be in want.
"But, Alvarez," I continued, "she is not happy. She knows her time is short, and the one thing she wants is to see her boy again. It's a pity you are so far away."
Alvarez' eyes had grown moist, as I described his old mother, and the old store where the children still came for their pieces of candy, with a penny tightly clutched in their fingers. His Latin nature had been touched to the quick, with remembrances 0£ home and the wishes of his mother.
Somehow the conversation seemed to have filled Alvarez so with memories and reminiscences that he forgot to speak, and his eyes lost their pleasant, welcoming glance for one of dreamy haziness. The rest of the meal I finished in silence, as I understood that he wished to be left to his memories.
By the time I had cornpleted my dinner, some of the old time cheerfulness seemed to have been regained by Alvarez, and he bade me his usual cheery, Hasta Luego, hoping that I would volver pronto-come back again soon for a meal.
Business kept me rather busy for the next week, and I was forced to take my meals wherever I found myself. Sunday, however, found me at leisure, and I turned my steps to Marchanti's hoping to renew my conversation with Alvarez.
I walked in, and after checking my hat looked for Alvarez. His usual place at the first table was vacant, (Continued on Page 22)
Decency
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
DODY HUTTON
Di's best friend.
MARION HOLLAND
One who wavered, but decided to stick after all.
]ACK Member of the Student Judicial Board.
ANNE President of the Student Judicial Board.
SUE
DI
Another Member.
The girl convicted of the theft; also a member of the Judicial until her recent resignation.
MABLE OSGOOD
The poor girl from whom the money was stolen.
NINE OTHER GIRLS to appear with the twelve on the Judicial. The same girls may be used for the group that walks through later in the play.
TIME: March 15, 1929. The play opens at one-thirty Wednesday afternoon and closes at one-thirty Thursday afternoon.
PLACE: A small drawing room of a college. The scene remains in the same throughout the play, with variation only in the levels of each scene. The drawing room is the usual kind-with a davenport in the center of the stage and a chair of the same suite on either side of the room. Pictures, flowers, and other accessories may be added in taste. At the back of the davenport is a staircase landing-arrived at by two small circular stairways on the side. From the landing the single stairway leads up to the second floor. The small space just beyond the steps on the second floor is visible.
SCENE I
( Curtain rises as Dody appears from the second floor and Marion is walking down the curving steps on the left.)
DODY (breathlessly) : Marion, have you heard what they've done to Di?
MARION: What? Have they finally finished?
DODY (in a distressed tone) : They convicted her. But they are letting her stay on with no Senior privileges --on probation. They're letting her stay because of her past record. The irony of it!
MARION: They could have done far worse. But Di
-well, she is the last person on earth I'd ever suspect of stealing. And to steal from that poor little Mable Osgood who never has a thing. I wonder where she ever got $25 anyway.
DODY: Marion Holland, do you mean you have the nerve to believe Diane Bancroft took that money? As long as you've known Di, and as fine as you know she is? Ye Gods! I should think the people who know her would at least stick. (Ending up her speech in a hot accusatory manner.)
MARION (insulted): Well, friendship for me doesn't include thieving. Di has always been too liberal in her views anyway.
DODY (hotly): Yes, she has--too liberal in her views of what others do, and too strict in judging herself. No wonder she is always unhappy. Everything falls short for her, even herself. (Quieter.) Marion, have you ever seen Diane suffer?
MARION: Yes--
DODY: Well then, nothing worse could have happened to her. (Heated again.)
DODY: And a darned bunch of college students-a Judicial Board-trying to judge a person like Di-perpetrating a thing like that.
MARION: I think they're coming now.
DODY: Marion, I'm a coward. I'd rather do anything than see Di now-but if somebody doesn't see her-
MARION: Dody, I'm sticking.
(Marion goes upstairs, disappears to right. Dody comes down, disappears to left. Twelve girls with long robes thrown over their arms, come down from upper left and file down the steps. Some have come forward into the drawing room, others are still on the circular steps. Jack is alone on the landing.)
JACK: Ghastly, wasn't it? I guess I'll get all the credit for the dirty work.
ANNE: vVell, you won't either-just because you were decent enough to report your own friend. You ought to get credit for being so brave.
SuE: How long does it take! to forget people's faces? Let's go somewhere quick, and go hard. I'll never sleep tonight. If she'd only not been so white about it all as
if she didn't want us. to be inconvenienced. I'm going. Come on!
(All trail off but Jack and Anne. They come down the steps and sit on the two arms of the davenport.)
ANNE: Jack, it will be horribly uncomfortable for you. You've played around with Di so much. Did you ever suspect a quirk in her like this? She always appeared so true to me. Unle ss this was circumstantial evidence I would never believe it. And I find it hard to realize w ith the proof. Di always seemed so fine and afraid th at her decency would offend others.
JACK: Well, I used to wonder if it were all entirely sincere. Of course, Di has some fine qualities and quite a bit of personality. Maybe she'll make thieving an attractive characteristic. You can't tell about the popular mind. They'll very likely elevate Di immediately that they have discovered a weakness.
ANNE (quizzically) : I wonder if she will allow it. (Ch a nging her manner.) I'm going to change and go to town. Can't stand this atmosphere. I'll meet you you in half an hour.
( The two girls disappear off to the left.)
SCENE II
TIME: Nine o'clock that same night. Dody is sitting in the drawing room. She stays still for a moment, then picks up a magazine, walks up and down, and sits again. She is hunched up in a chair when Jack enters from the left.
]ACK: Hi, Dody-what are you waiting for down here at this time of night? I saw a jolly show in town. You should have gone with us.
DODY: Have you seen Di? Do you know where she went after-after you all finished with her?
JACK: She wouldn't have-nothing could have happened to her, could there? ( Seriously worried.)
DODY: I've been waiting for her since lunch and it's after nine now. No one has seen her since she-heard.
JACK: Dody, I'm terribly sorry about everything. You don't know how I've hated it. It doesn't seem real. I thought Di was above anything little. She must have had a brainstorm. If I can do anything to help let me know. I'd rather not say anything to Di-considering my connection with it.
DODY (showing her impatience as little as possible; apparently careless) : Jack, how did you find out who took the money?
JACK: We knew money was disappearing, but we couldn't trace it. Mable Osgood seemed rather suspicious
to me-you know she simply hasn't anything and then suddenly she bought all these new clothes. She's being sent here by charity or something, and we know authentically that she doesn't have any spending money except $5.00 a month she makes, working in the Waffle Shop. I told Di I was suspicious and thought we ought to question her and search her things. Di got strangely furious with me and said until we had som{1evidence we had no right to inflict that much pain upon a person. I remember now that she appeared terribly worried about it--
DODY: Worried about Mable Osgood, . or the fact of the theft?
]ACK: Oh, apparently about inflicting any discomfort upon Mable. She said she would resign from the Judicial if we accused Mable before we had any evidence.
DODY: What happened next?
]ACK: I went to Mable and asked her about her new clothes, explaining that we felt it necessary to make all inquiries possible for the protection of the student body. Poor child she was fearfully cut up. It was a little embarrassing I suspect. Finally she told me an agency in town was lending her money. She showed me a check for $25 that she hadn't yet spent. I guess she couldn't stand those hopeless clothes she had any longer.
DODY ( with a short laugh) : No. I guess not.
JACK: You see, Di resigned-and then a few other queer things happened?
DODY:What do you mean-a few other queer things?
JACK: Oh, just things Di would say about the rights of an individual-you know all those ideas Di has. Anyway, it was rather queer.
DoDY: Rather--
]
ACK: The next morning Anne went down to borrow Di's mesh bag and found Mable's check in it. That's all. Circumstantial evidence.
DODY: But how could Anne have known where the mesh bag was? You and I were the only ones in the room when Di hid it behind the tapestry over the mantel. You remember she said, "If I forget where I'm putting it, at\ least you two can tell me. I wouldn't lose it for anything; it was the last thing mother gave me before she died." Jack, when did Anne go to get the mesh bag?
JACK: That afternoon we went to see Strange Interlude. About 2 o'clock. She told me when we got back that night.
DoDY: Oh, yes.
JACK: I think I'll been-rather difficult. try to get some sleep. Today's Good-night. You're a peach.
DoDY: Good-night. (Exit Jack up steps.)
DODY (aside) : At 2 o'clock that afternoon. That was the day Jack took Di and me to lunch at the Black Owl, and had to dash back to her room just after we'd ordered-because she had for gotten her g loves And Jack never forgets things.
(Paces up and down once or twice, then, hunches down in dark corner in chair, then walks slowly up to landing and is going on up last single flight. Very still for few minutes. Slow, tired footsteps from right. Enters right and goes toward right wing of circular steps a figurehands in pockets-head and shoulders drooping, listless hopeless walk.)
DODY (turns forward): Di!
(Di turns slowly as dogged as ever - not a word spoken.)
DODY (anxiously) : Where have you been, Di?
DI : Walking.
DoDY: I couldn't find you. I've been awfully worried about you.
DI ( cooly walking back down stage a little and trying to straighten her shoulders and head since her spirits will not cease drooping) : Thanks awfully. It was nice of you. ( Turns to go on up-in spite of herself swaying slightly.)
DODY: Di, have you been walking ever since-all this time?
DI ( hard, cool voice) : Ever since I was convicted of stealing. Stealing is the word you want, Dody. (Sways again.)
DoDY (hurries down toward Di): Di, you're going to faint.
DI: No, I'll be careful. This woodwork scratches so easily. Dody you can't spend your time talking to a thief. Some people maybe-but not you You are toountouched. (Her voice breaks and is controlled with difficulty.)
(Dody comes toward her and Di turns her back-and braces her shoulders.)
DODY (sorrowfully) : Di, you're making it terribly hard for me. You'll soon make me feel as low as you think I am. (Di drops down on the davenport-with a broken cry.) You know I was terribly afraid-you were so long coming.
DI: I thought of that way. Maybe I would have if I weren't such a coward. Yet, it seemed too easy. Queer, isn't it? People wanting the easy, then choosing the hard.
DODY (hurt): Oh, Di-how-- I
DI: I appreciate it worlds, Dody. But I'd rather you wouldn't bother. It's all so futile, you know-and it will be terribly inconvenient for you, Dody. I couldn't bear it, having them ostracize you 'cause you white enough to stick. (Head drops on hands )
( Silence for a moment.)
DODY: Di will it hurt too much to tell me a few things-the verdict?
DI ( dead level voice) : Permission to stay in dormitories, always watched, no other activities other than classes, social or academic If my nerves hold out in other words, they're giving me a chance to get my degree. If my behavior is good I may-let me see-middle of March till J une-77 days, 24 hours a day-60 minutes an hour -Dody, do you guess your nerves become hardened to it eventually? And it wouldn't be on the level to take dope to put you to sleep, I guess. You know I never thought I'd be glad my mother died before now. You never know what you'll b~ glad of, do you? Joy is not the same for different people. (Pause, then turning suddenly.) Why don't you ask me why I took it? And if I had a brain storm at the time-what I was doing to buy with it. ( Getting more hopeless.)
DODY: Because\ you didn't take it.
(Di gets up, starts pacing again.)
DI: I didn't know what hate could do before-this. Dody, what have I done or been-that a person should hate me so? At least, it was an extremely intelligent choice of punishment. Not too easy. And the queerest of it is I don't hate her. Seventy-seven days of hell could never strengthen a person enough to account for the beauty gone. No-can you explain it, Dody?
DoDY: Di, there's something too fine about you. Most people can't reach you-and they resent it.
DI: Most people wouldn't take the trouble to torture me. And I'll stick it. Why? Why? What does it matter? What does a degree matter? I've been trying to see. I can't. After all, what does it matter that I suffer or don't suffer. I have tried to be decent or haven't tried. Dody, today I have seen the reality of human nature. ( Curtain.)
SCENE III
(Next morning Mable Osgood and Dody; Dody after more information. Dody going up steps, Mable coming down. Dody stops her, conversation on landing.)
DODY: Hello, Mable, that's a pretty dress you have on.
MABLE: Thank you.
DoDY: Mable, will you forgive me if I ask you a few questions?
MABLE (looking frightened): Yes.
DoDY: When did you miss your check? You see Jack told me about it, and then I'm very fond of Diof course.
MABLE (almost tearful in her distress) : I wish I had never heard of the money. I don't even like to see Di any more. She must) hate me terribly.
DODY: Hate you?
MABLE: Well, it's all on account of my money. Just because I never have any-I guess if I'd ' known anything about money it never would have happened.
DODY: It wasn't your fault, Mable. If Di had hated you she never would have resigned from Judicial when they questioned you without any evidence.
MABLE: Is that why she resigned? Nobody knows that.
DODY: When did you miss the check?
MABLE: I put my closet key in my pocketbook just before lunch, and the check was there. It was gone when I came up from lunch.
DODY: How did anyone know where you kept your pocketbook?
MABLE: I don't understand. I had it in that old Chinese workbasket, and no one knew it. No one would ever suspect it was there. I remember Jack remarked on how queer a place to keep a pocketbook, when I took it out to show her the check that morning.
DODY: Well, I'm sorry it happened, Mable.
(Mable goes on out.)
DODY (to herself): Didn't we have lunch at the same time it's served at the Black Owl-and she left as soon as we had given our order.
Dr (enters at top of step): What arei you mumbling about, Dody? Lunch-Black Owl-sounds like a magic spell or something. (Brightly - wistful.) It would be rather nice to have a magic formula you could mumble and anything you want would vanish. Or else you would vanish.
(Enter troop of girls going up and down the steps. Speak to Di and Dody. Dody comes as far forward as Possible on landing when the girls troop in-an instinctive withdrawal from her so that they might not be incon-
venienced with contamination. When they speak she doesn't speak a word. She's drawn up straight and still.)
(Exit all, leaving Di and Dody still on steps. Dody speaks to girls-salutations.)
DODY: Di, you should speak. You make it so hard for people to be even natural.
Dr: Natural (fiercely): If they were natural they wouldn't walk up the same steps where I am standing. No one is natural. I don't want anyone's pity and condescension. Nor friendship either if it's not natural or true. What do they think I am? A beggar?
(Stalks down steps to drawing room. Droops a little. A pause.)
DODY: Di, do you have any idea how the check got into your mesh bag.
Dr ( turning on her swiftly) : I thought it was too good to last. I shouldn't expect too much of human nature. That's been my big mistake.
DODY (hotly) : Your big mistake is that you're utterly selfish. You talk about not hurting people-and deliberately hurt me as much as you can, when you know how I feel.)
Dr (sadly; contritely) : Believe me, Dody. I'm sorry (brokenly). I hurt so much myself that I don't control my need of seeing more hurt-and so I turn around and hurt my best friend. If you would just leave me alonethen I could harm no one.
DODY: Do you remember the time you put the mesh bag away, and told Jack and me to remember where you put it in cas<.jyou forgot?
Dr: Yes, I remember, I got an awfully nice letter from Jack about the whole affair. It was a terrible strain and disillusion for her. Dody-I'm always sorry to be the cause of anyone's disillusion.
DoDY: Did you tell anyone else where you had put the mesh bag?
Dr: Ye Gods-no! You sound like the inquisition.
DODY: Jack told me all about the evidence. Mable showed her the check. Do you remember that day-Jack took us all to lunch-and left for a few minutes to get her glove? Just when we had lunch at school. Mable saw the check before lunch, and it was gone immediately after. Jack and I alone knew where your mesh bag was. Draw your own conclusions.
Dr: Dody Hutton, are you trying to tell me that you ( Continued on Page 24)
BOOK REVIEWS
"QUALIS ARTIFEX PEREOI"
The Way of E cben. James Branch Cabell. Robert M. McBride, 1929.
Myths, gods, and poets pass, but protestingly. The myth resists destruction perhaps more formidably than the god, but the poet pays a toll outright for personal tangibility in the shape of death. Usually there is a lament, something graceful and suited to the occasion, but rarely a full funeral oration, at least by the poet.
Yet Mr. Cabell is unwilling to sink mutely at the mercy of morticians deficient in composition; the ceremony must be personally directed, and executed with all the perfect writing appropriate to a beautiful happening; for the passing of a poet is, after all, whether from the earth or, as Mr. Cabell here exemplifies, from the columns of the reviewers, in a sense beautiful.
Though perhaps we are tricked: perhaps Mr. Cabell wishes to resign only from those activities which touch writing, in one or another shape, about Ettarre. Of late the aging poet's relations with the witch-woman have become confessedly thin and dubious; he admits her allure is obscured by a grayness attributable only, after some metaphoric strain, to the scythe of time. This may be. In that event, the colophon of The Way of Ecben proves, in addition to being in bad taste, hypocritical.
But one may reasonably doubt that Mr. Cabell will turn at fifty to new forms, or that Mr. Cabell at fifty or any other age will ever write anything which does not touch Ettarre. She is Cabell's whole life in art, beginning dimly in a profusion, emerging mistily in the middle books, and standing lonelily in the few masterpieces which you know, very quietly, will endure. At the very last remove in these books Ettarre waits. Each of the poets' -and Mr. Cabell's heroes are always poets-lives is a blotched yearning for\ her; and "Ettarre stays inaccessible always and many are the ways of her elusion."
Whether the exit Mr. Cabell is here making will be
found satisfactory is questionable. There will always be persons here and there for whom The Way of Ecben will remain a grisly coffin in the library. Meanwhile Mr. Cabell, they will tell you, is to be found here, in The High Place, or here, in Figures of Earth. The corpse there in the black box is an illusion-the author of Jurgen is to be found just at present, it chances, outside Maya's cottage with Gerald Musgrave, engaged in useless and very fine conversation with the myths and gods journeying down toward Antan, in the while that he disposes of eternity, willy-nilly, m the manner becoming to a retired poet.
-B. A. M.
The Half Pint Flask. By DuBose Heyward.
The short story, with a background of Southern atmosphere and South Carolina negro customs, is worthy of Mr. Heyward's by no means negligible abilities; but hardly, we think, worthy of commending for itself a volume of its own. In a collection of short stories it would fit nicely and perhaps arouse some attention, but its qualities are scarcely such as to assure it a claim to re-editions when it appears by itself. This reviewer inclines toward the suspicion that The Half Pint Flask was intended to sell on the reputation made by its author with such books - as Porgy and Mamba's Daughters; that it will sell as these books did is doubtful.
The story concerns the stealing of a half pint flask from an old negro grave by a collector of glass and china, and of the disastrous consequences that befall him. It is a study of superstition and psychology, purely romantic and perhaps superficial in plot. The local color ofi South Carolina Gullah Negro life and superstitutions is familiar to those who have read Mr. Heyward's former books. The fine English style and the excellent descriptions deserve some praise.
The woodcuts, by means of which the book is illustrated, add much to its attractiveness.
In This Issue
JOHNNIE ADAMS: Miss Adams is a Junior in Westhampton College and an associate editor of THE MESSENGER. She has written a fine story this month.
CUTHBERT WHoosis: The last issue carried an account of Mr. Whoosis. Mr. Leslie L. Jones, now of Charlotte Hall, sent us this amusing sketch also found among Mr. Whoosis' personal effects.
EVELYN DUNCAN: Her amazing article is quite as good as its name is now. Miss Duncan has a felicity of phrase and apparently has developed a high regard for both euphony and euphemy. We hope that she will write some more.
VALERIE LE MASURIER: Miss Le Masurier's short sketch this month is well conceived. If this is a fair sample of her work, we would indeed like to see some more of it.
FRANCES RAWLINGS: We are informed that Miss Rawlings is a Freshman in Westhampton. Her sketch is a very excellent piece of writing and shows a great deal of promise.
RUTH Cox: Miss Cox will be remembered as a very prominent member of last year's graduating class. We couldn't resist printing this sketch of hers.
J. L. HART: Mr. Hart was also a student here last year. We liked this story of his and hope that he will send us more.
Epitaph
Man sails in upon this Sea Borne by a ship whose chaste white sails Are filled with winds that Blow between the stars. And, presumptuous man, Endeavoring to guide his little ship At variance with the winds, Worries and frets until his very soul Is warped by the struggle. A Voice calls-and attuned ears, Hearing the sound, bid the soul embark Upon the flood that pours From eternal springs of the Infinite.
-W. F. Fidler.
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(Continued from Page 5) ,. eat the great log until only a crooked, black stick lay on the red embers.
THE SCARF
The lamp was a blot of yellow within the chill light of the morning. The fireplace was black and g rey. Mary pushed her strai ght brown hair back from her forehead and stood up. "I didn't mean to go to sleep," she said slowly. "Suppose John had come and there had been no fire." And then she remembered that she had locked the door. She knew then that he had come, had stumbled down the frozen road, had fallen in the snow at her locked door. Her heart cried out at her, "Why did you go to sleep and let him die?" and her fri ghtened soul whispered back , "I didn't know, I didn't know!"
She built up a great fire in the fireplace, and when the whole room was warm, she walked over to the door and turned the key. Her brain throbbed, but her heart was still. For a moment that tra g ic whisper of her soul had quieted it. With a quick movement, she flung the door wide. Yes, he was there as she had thought, but he was different someway. She had not expected to see his face turned pleadingly up to her as she looked down. She shuddered at the sight of his white hand sticking upright alone after she had pulled the door away. He had tried to knock, but she had thought of wolves scraping their shag gy sides against the bricks! She sat down in the snow and took his hand. The stiffened sleeve cracked as she mo ved it. She looked up at the white hill for a moment.
"J oho, were you too cold when you came 'round the foot of old Tucker?"
The wind had not stopped blowing all day, and the snow was banked to the sills a gainst the north windows. It blew more fiercely than ever that night, and the woman in the lonely little house could hear it as it started over the hills, gathering force as it came and finally crashing
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about her own windows. She was glad of the noise; it kept her from thinking, but it did not still the taunt, "You let him die, you let him die!" All night she sat by the bed, and when the slow dawn came, she drew the curtain down and went into the kitchen.
At about six o'clock that evening, the wind stopped blowing, and Mary wondered how she could live in the awful stillness of the night. It was then that she realized what it meant to have John there with his calm face against the white pillow. She bent over once or twice to look at his face closely. She couldn't understand the smile on his lips. Was he laughing at her misery; was he saying, "It's all right, Mary, I know"?
There was a small pile of things on a chair near the fire. They had come out of Joh n's pockets and were put there to dry. The little shrunken, wrinkled articles looked so terribly alone, as if they, too, had lost something. :Mary went over and fingered them, gently drawing them together into a heap and spreading them out again. She stood there until the cold quiet darkness came and groped blindly among the shadows for a place. The house was as still as if a thousand white souls hung above it to keep the world away. The silence was there all right with its brooding taunting quiet. And Mary sat in that silence and felt John's hand grow warm within her own.
In the clear, cold dawn, the sharp clinking of sleighbells came to her. She ran to the window; she must stop them. If they went by and left her She pulled frantically at the door, swinging her body from one side to the other violently. The bells grew fainter, fainter, and finally she could not hear them at all. She flung herself against the door with her back to it. She must get away-away from that motionless figure on the bed; away from the awful quiet.
The bells again! Mary watched the gaily painted sleigh turn into the short lane that led to her house. It was at the door in an instant, and a man and woman got out. Mary signalled for the man to try to open the door, and in a few moments, both laughingly entered.
"How beautiful you are!" were the first words of the woman, but the man had seen and harshly touched her arm. Mary wanted to laugh out--could cold terror make anyone beautiful?
"We found this at the turning," the woman said in a quiet, low voice.
Mary untied the card at once. She did laugh thenhysterically, broken-heartedly, but softly as one who has found an answer in the folds of a brown woolen scarf.
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TERRORS OF THE NON-EXISTENT
(Continued fr om Page 10)
Can anyone say why there are such desolation and so great a quantity of non-existence which make our very lives burdens? Why there is such lack of confidence and restraint from indulging tendencies which are the road to confusion and a very an a rchy of the soul? We are pressed down on all sides by extremities. There is no cultivation of moderation. Hence the absence of lucid disinterested thinking which heads the civilizations which have formed the foundation of all civilizations.
It is terror of self, a self which is stru gg lin g always against effort. It is as thou g h we had never awakened (probably caused by the failure ever to sleep). And we dwell much in a land of shadowy phantoms in a wandering after false tights. Althou g h many tell of a guiding hand, when I reach out to touch it I always grasp a twist of thorns. Each individual has his path through a forest; each is alone. It is the future that is unknown, and the future is mostly terrors.
But the future is not here. And if enthusiasm for happenings that touch us every day were as eager as when discerned for those things which has not come, a firmer control of ourselves and destiny would impose harmony when much discord reigns.
Go to nature; study her ways and live fully if you would be wise. Do things when they are supposed to be done; do them naturally, and count yourself fortunate if you ever realize those things which you see. It is that personality of nature's which has for its foundation a clear beauty, not bizarre nor obtrusive, but quiet, which is her greatest charm. It is a personality that absorbs each character until all are in one in hers. She is one who has not troubles of her own which prevent her from removing the world's care from some poor individual who has appropriated it unknown to himself. For we are foolish creatures and dream-like, baffied by the mockery of life and therein lies the terror.
A SKETCH
(Continued from Page 13)
but a waiter came scurrying to show me a table. I indicated the one I would have and sat down. It was rather difficult to order without the intelligent aid of Alvarez, but I made an out of it, and when the waiter returned, I asked him what had become of the head waiter.
"He left yesterday, sir. For Buenos Aires, I under-
stand. Seems very pecuilar he should leave at this time, when Mr. Marchanti had assured him a partnership," he informed me.
For a minute I was dumfounded. But as I began thinking of that old shop in Trelew, I could see Alvarez back of the counter, with his sleeves rolled up, waiting on the little children for their pennies worth of chocolate or gum drops, while his old mother sat over in the corner, with a black shawl over her shoulders, beaming at her son, utterly contented. A tear came into my eye, and with reverence, I drank a silent toast to my friend.
FURTHER SKETCHES OF THOS. NELSON PAGE'S COUNTRY AS REMEMBERED BY A COLLEGE STUDENT
( Continued from Page 12) who loved my grandfather. And those black knots, how faithful and true! I wondered if the black love were not more precious than the white. I turned to look down the road, and saw Aunt Vic walking along with her cane, walking back the three miles she had come to pay her last homage to Marse Oliver. By her side trudged a little pickaninny. The old and the new-evolution! I wondered. I was sad, yes, but it was a peaceful sadness. I could hear my grandfather say, "It's all right, Dolly, we saved all the horses." And I knew that there should be nothing so sad about the passing, for he was a Virginia gentleman, and all "his horses" were saved in the hearts of those people who still have the privilege of living in the land that Thomas Nelson Page has idealized. We call it down here-Virginia.
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DECENCY
(Continued from Page 17)
think Jack (laughing) it's impossible (laughter dies; conviction.) And to put it in the mesh bag she knew I loved so.
(A pause.)
Dr: But why?
DODY (softly) : Because she is stronger than the "most people" we were talking about. I often wondered how the two of you-both with dominant personalities--could last together. Well. I guess, that right of aloofness you insist on for the individual-in the case of Mable Osgood -was the final blow. The trouble with your superiority is you are unconscious of it-that makes it all the worse. Well, what are you doing to do about it? Di?
Dr: Do?
( Curtain.)
SCENE IV
(Di has a chance to disclose the secret and doesn't. Jack knows it. Di keeps Dody from disclosing it.)
DODY: Because I believe in decency, even though you may not, I wish to tell you something privately, before I tell the Judicial.
JACK ( blase) : Of course, I believe in decency. That's why I believe in you and Di-both of you are so decent.
DODY: You sound as though you mean that.
]ACK: I do.
DoDY : Then why did you forget decency when you were dealing with Di? It wouldn't be so hard if you weren't so intelligent, but your intelligence makes the pain more exquisite. Why did you do it, Jack?
JACK: Why? The reason a snake strikes at beauty. The loveliness is too unattainable-makes too great a pain.
DoDY: I'm sorry now, for you, Jack - but I can't watch Di suffer any more.
JACK: No, you can't. Shall I call Anne? She's just outside waiting for me. ( Goes to call Anne.)
DoDY: Thank you.
(Anne enters. Di comes down steps on landing, unseen by the others.)
DODY: Anne, I have something to tell you. It's about this same affair. Jack put the--
Dr (interrupting) : Dody, would you tell me where I put my mesh bag? I've forgotten-and you are the only one who saw me put it away.
