"One of the Spiders gives the player's side of the game"
By Stukie Hoskins
((Telling how the Thanksgiving feud between William and Mary and the University of Richmond began"
By Straughan Lowe Gettier
AT 2,000 TOBACCO AUCTIONS
"The U. S. Government has helped farmers raise finer tobacco - and the better grades go to Luckies!" says Earl Forbes, auctioneer. He's been "in tobacco" twenty-two years, and has smoked Luckies for thirteen years.
Have you tried a Lucky lately? Luckies are better than ever because new methods developed by the United States Government have helped farmers grow finer, lighter tobacco in the past several years.
Easy on Your ThroatBecause"IT'STOASTED •
As independent tobacco experts like Earl Forbes point out, Luckies have always bought the Cream of the Crop. Aged from 2 to 4 years, these finer tobaccos are in Luckies today.
Try Luckies for a week. Then you'll know why sworn records show that among independent tobacco experts- auctioneers, buyers and warehousemen-Luckies have twice as many exclusive smokers as have all other cigarettes combined! WITHMENWHOKNOWTOBACCOBEST-IT'SLUCKIES 2 TO1
W AL T E R E B ASS , Editor -ill-Chief; O WEN TATE, Richmond College Editor : M A BEL L E IG H RO O K E , Wes t hampton College Ed1tor : T. ST AN F O RD T U T W IL E R , H A RRI E T Y EA - * : MA NS, B us i ness Managers : SIMP SON WIL LIAMS, As.ristant B 11si11ess M anage r: H E LEN :t: HILL , PH YL LI S A NNE COG HI LL, J EAN NEAS M IT H, Westhampton College Adviso ry B oard ; FLORENC E L A FO ON, ARTH U R BR O W N, Art E dit ors; S T R AUG H AN LOW E G E TTJER, R e- * search E di t o r ; H EN RIETTA S A DL E R , Non -Fic t ion E ditor,· E T H EL O'BRIEN , B O B M A RTIN , :t: i P oe t ry Ed itors; KIR A NI C H 0LS KY , Assistant P oetry Edito r ; PmLIP C OOK E , Fi ction Edi t or : :t: VIRGINIA M c L A RIN , B ook R evieu , Ed i to r ; R O B E R TA WI N FR E Y , A ssist an t B ook R evie u • * * Ed it or. * * * X¼7~¼¼¼¼¼¼¼¼¼¼¼¼¼¼¼¼¼¼¼¼¼¼¼¼¼¼¼¼¼¼¼¼¼¼¼¼¼¼¼¼¼¼¼¼¼¼¼¼¼¼¼¼¼¼¼¼¼¼¼¼¼¼¼¼¼¼¼¼¼¼+Tf~
A REST A TING OF THECASE
(AN EDITORIAL)
We have come to such a familiarity with the phrase "the United States of America" that we seem to consider it the natural course of action that our forefathers united themselves into one nation rather than thirteen nations. This was, however, in no wise the case. Not one desired a Federation. They united solely for common warfare, common grievances against the mother country. After the war they would naturally go back to their individual existence, each one supreme in its own territory.
Evidence of this opinion is found during the war itself when the weaker states expressed their fears that the stronger ones would exert military or economic control over them. Abundant evidence is found after the war in the expressions of the various state's representatives who fought for states' rights.
From this melee of doubts and wranglings emerged the framework of a union, weak at first and fearful of its longevity, feeling its way into the states, lest any action of autocracy or supremacy cause it to totter. It grew stronger from the mere necessity that it must grow stronger, from the exigencies that grew out of the need of common protection.
But here we must pause and consider. How did the people permit themselves to be bound to a central government? Was it because they were of one temperament, one culture, one national heredity? We know that this is far from the truth. One group's ancestors were debtor slaves; another of the aristocracy; puritans against the care free; English; French; Dutch; German; and others to make a strange conglomeration. Then there must have been something stronger than all of the background which they represented. We cannot say that it was religion, for there were as many religious
groups here as there were in the Europe that had been torn by religion. It was, however, to be found in an ideal which may have been founded in religion, but which had grown to manhood and of itself was demanding a place in the scheme of things. This idealism was a brotherhood founded in complete social equality We can not believe that this burned as a consuming passion in every life, but that it was a Springing-out of feelings that had been trampled by centuries of slavery and fear. The under-current was that a new nation must be born among men.
lf we refuse to rationalize history, we can only say that this spirit of our forefathers, however intangible it may be, has created for us and the world a growing ideal and reality which can be retained only by care and work.
In such a crisis as we are facing now it is fitting that we try to put ourselves into the spirit and hope of our forefathers and strive in unison. We must sacrifice, not our blood, but our own selfish aims in order that we may become stronger men and leave for the world a balm to soothe the aching wounds of the hatreds that war inexitably creates. The course we take is momentous, as all the events of our day are momentous. We cannot say for sure, but we can feel that to us the world is looking for strength. The strength of force can do no more than to carry us and others into the past and recreate the inequality of centuries gone by. But moral strength, unselfish endeavor, and a mind of equanimity can make us the helpers of humanity.
It is not our duty to forget war, but to think clearly in the midst of it-to think clearly of what the future holds if we fail ourselves and humanity. THE EDITOR. r 2 J
MY EXPERIENCES IN SPORTS
By STUKIE HOSKINS
It seems only yesterday that I was back in Fredericksburg getting my start in the field of sports. I can remember well the old Fredericksburg Tigers which was the first athletic team I played with. I was ten years old. Starke Jones and Jack Sanford were also members of the Tigers. Sanford later starred for the University of Richmond in three sports, having made All-State end in his sophomore year, and was captain of baseball in 1939. Starke also became one of the University's versatile athletes and was one of our mainstays in the pitcher's box last season.
· I played football, baseball, and basketball with the Tigers. I had the pleasure of opposing the famed Charlottesville Fives the year they were the United States Midget Champions. The score, incidentall y, was 65 to 6 and not in our favor.
I entered the Fredericksburg High School in the fall of 1932 with the ambition to make as many athletic letters as possible. I reported for football practice the day I entered. Being a huge man, weighing at least 115 pounds, I warmed the bench in fine fashion that year. That spring I did a most excellent job at thirdstring catching. (If I remember correctly I played in one practice game against a country high school.)
In my third year in high school Fredericksburg was extremely fortunate in securing Mr . John L. Fenlon as head coach . I played as a regular under "Johnny" in three sports during my last two years in school. At this time I would like to pay high tribute to Mr. Fenlon both as a man and a coach . I consider his being freshman coach at Richmond an asset of great value to us
After I graduated from high school, I decided to go to the grandest school of all-the University of Richmond. I had dreams of being on the varsity eleven, and being so anxious to do just that that I entered school four days early.
I was introducd to Ed Merrick after I had been in school about a week. In the three years that have passed since then we have built up a strong friendship between us that I will value all my life. I can give him nothing but the highest praise as a friend and athlete . Ed is in my opinion the best football player that I have
[ 3 J
ever played with; moreover I consider him one of the best players in the East today. To Ed the team owes much of its success in the past two years, and under his leadership they are bound to have a wonderful season this fall.
While tossing a few bouquets around I would like to pitch one to Petey Jacobs whom we well remember. Petey is one of the best baseball players that I have ever seen. He was, however, more than a player. He was moral backbone to the team. Sometimes when the going was rough it was Petey ' s encouraging pat on the shoulder that kept me going.
I have caught many left-handers, both in college and semi-pro baseball, and some of them were plenty good. The mightiest of them all, however, is our own Porter Vaughan. Porter, without a doubt, will be playing in the major leagues in the very near future. It will be a great day for me when I can sit in the stands and point to Porter and say proudly, "I caught him at the University of Richmond."
I regret that the lack of space prevents my mentioning the names of many others with whom I have played and to whom the school owes much. It would be impossible to allow one man whom I have learned to love as a father, Coach Mac Pitt, go unmentioned. I cannot find words to express my praise and appreciation for what he has done for me. In my opinion, he is the greatest baseball and basketball coach in all the world; but above it all he is a gentleman to the last letter. I have never met a finer man. If "Stukie, Jr." ever goes off to college, I'll put him in Mr. Pitt's charge, for I know he will have a father's care.
Another to whom I owe much is Coach
The boys consider him as a walking encyclopedia when it comes to football.
As you can see from the facts above, athletics have meant much more to me than just playing and winning. But this does not mean that the actual playing is bitter work and no fun. It is true that there are times when the going is rough. There have been times when I have played so hard and seemed to have done so little that I was discouraged. But to offset these feel in gs are the memories of many thrills and much fun that I have gotten out of the game. It would be impossible for me to tell all the experiences I have had, or even all of the most exciting ones. Sometimes the players get thrills in some of the things that happen which are passed as incidental to the onlookers. My thrills, then, are personal ones, the ones that have meant most to me. Of them I shall mention a few:
Last year was a most exciting one in baseball. There were many games that were hard fought, and it was a pleasure to see the boys in such fine form, and cooperating so smooth1y. It was a real pleasure for me to be one of the team that won the State championship. This is an honor which I shall never forget.
Another game I shall never forget is the basketball game with N.Y.U. in my sophomore year. It was a hard game. We had to keep on ol).r guard all the time, and we certainly were glad to win.
Of course, there have been thrills in football. Just as it is the most exciting game to the spectators, so it is the hardest and most thrilling to the players. There are so many things that I could tell that I don't know just where to start. There is the never-ending thrill of making a touchdown; but there is also the Glenn Thistlethwaite, a very capable and ef- worry and trouble over an up-set. Another ficient coach. If he were given the proper thrill that the players get which is not possible materials Coach Thistlethwaite could mould ·for the spectators is that of the planning and them into one of the best teams in the country. quick thinking that is necessary in the huddle.
[4]
There are the memories of many beautiful plays. In the V.M.I. game last year there occurred the never-to-be-forgotten ninety-twoyard run that Afie Jones made from the eightyard line to a touchdown. Then there was that beautiful reverse on the kick-off play in the Washington and Lee homecoming game last year. According to the previous games Hebie Spears received the kick-off and handed it to Jones who cut in front of him towards the right. But this time Hebie faked, kept the ball and ran sixty-seven yards to the twelve-yard line, while the Washington and Lee boys were chasing Jones. It was a thrill not just because we gained so much but because the play had been done so smoothly.
But leaving football, I'll have to go back to baseball to tell one of the funniest things that has ever happened in my sports days. It was in the baseball game with Duke two years ago. We had been fighting a hard game and were behind in score. The whole team was discouraged, and no one knew quite what to do. Ed Merrick asked the coach to put him in the game, but the coach refused. Another inning passed and things weren't doing any better. Ed again asked the coach, " Aw, come on,
coach, put me in. I'll show 'em something."
The coach, being at his wits end, was ready to take any possible chance, so he let Merrick go in. Ed threw a ball that went high over the head of the catcher. He turned to the coach and yelled, "Me curve ball ain't so good today."
I have enjoyed all of my sport days and shall never forget them. It is with regrets that I realize that this is my last year in intercollegiate sports. My ambition, however, is to become a professional ball player. I have had offers from several major league clubs (between you and me I think they had better fire their scouts) and in May I expect to sign up with one of them and try my luck at the prof essional side of the game . If I don't make the grade, and a very steep grade it is, I'll attempt coaching in some high school.
To all the boys whom I have played with and against during my college days I wish all the success and happiness that this ol' world can bring. I sincerely hope that the end of our school life together will not mean the end of our friendship and that our paths shall cross agam.
The beginning of eternity
The end of time and space; The beginning of every end And the end of every place.
w M. MCGRIFF
' II.
By WILLIAM L. MANER
I. THE WOMAN IN WHITE down in his coat against the salty spray from
The water threw itself against the stone the breakers. wall which gave the Battery its name and Just then a door, midway down the veransprayed itself over the rough cobblestones that dah, opened, and a yellow lamp flickered on paved the street. The sound of the cabhorse's the grey floor. A dark figure, dressed in a clopping hooves was almost lost in the roar of flannel night gown, stood in the doorway, the sea and the whine of the wind John sat staring suspiciously toward the gate. back as far as he could in the corner of the "Who's dere? What you'all want here dis hansom and tucked the collar of his overcoat time of night?" closer around his chin. The strong wind, "Brutus! It's me. It's Mr. John. Let me in." blowing fiercely over the bay, whipped the icy "Lawd, Mr. John. What you <loin' in rain against him and made him crouch, shiver- Charleston dis time of night? Lawdy, suh, ing, under the heavy robe. you sho did give me a fright. Where you
The cab pulled up at the curb in front of a come from?" said the old negro, hurrying high brick wall with a grilled gate set in it. down the porch and unlocking the gate. The cab driver, a gnarled, thin old negro, "Come in here and git dem wet clothes off. I climbed down and helped John out. John sho am glad to se you, suh." paid him and rang the bell at the gate. The He shut the big door with a slam and set driver sat, shivering on the box for a moment the lamp on the marble top of a table . John before he clucked his horse and disappeared looked about him. The place hadn't changed into the darkness a bit in five years. Things don't change in John rang the bell again and looked up at Charleston. The old stairway, twisting gracethe big, red brick house which stood immedi- fully up into the dark above, the heavy crystal ately behind the high wall. The house was chandelier, with its white tallow candles still, completely dark, and the shutters at the tall the same old mahogany chairs, and the same w indows were closed. He peered through the gilt mirrors reaching to the ceiling on each grillwork of the gate at the black, dead garden side of the wide hall. and the long dark verandah which ran the John pulled off his wet gloves and his coat length of the side of the house, ending in a and handed them to Brutus. The hall was as pair of steps just inside the gate. He pushed cold as it was outside. He blew on his hands the bell a third time. to warm them and stood, while the negro "There must be somebody here," he said to hung the coat under the stairs. He looked himself. 'Tm quite sure Aunt Rinny is in about him, puzzled. Why was the house so town. She never leaves Charleston in Decem- cold? Wasn't anyone at home? ber. Why doesn't somebody answer this bell?" "You come down to the kitchen with me, He gave it another sharp jab and hunched Mr. John, and I'll fix you up something to [6]
warm yourself with. Miss Rinney and Miss Rhetta is gone up to the Brick House to visit with Mr. Carew's family. Miss Harriett is going t' get married to Mr. Cunningham's boy t'morrow. They won't be back till nex' Sunday."
"Of course," John realized suddenly. "Aunt Rhetta wrote me they were going up, but I forgot it was so soon." He followed the old negro through the chilly, dark rooms, down to the large kitchen. The kitchen was warm and comfortable . A fire was burning in the brick fireplace, and the yellow light was reflected in the shining copper utensils that hung on the racks against the whitewashed wall. Brutus threw a stick of wood on the fire, and John sat down in front of it and pulled off his soaked shoes. He put his cold feet up on the iron fender, and closed his eyes. This was the first time he had been warm all day. Brutus brought him a drink of his aunt's special old brandy. He gulped it down, and felt its warm glow creep through his tired body, reaching the very end of his toes. He did not know that Brutus had left the room until the aged negro returned and spoke to him.
"I done fixed a fire in the south room, and it'll be ready in a minute, Mr. John. You can go up now and get to bed."
The south room was cold, but the roaring fire would warm it in no time. John turned and looked around the room . It was good to be back where everything was so familiar. Nothing ever changed in this house. Everything was exactly as it had been for nearly a hundred years, he thought again. The big old poster bed; the huge wing chairs; and the big portrait over the mantle.
The portrait was that of a young woman, tall and graceful, and dressed completely in white. She was John's great-grandmother. The portrait was painted in France before she came over to becotne the bride of the fabulous
Oglivie Carew, the most dashing figure in all of giddy Charleston, who several years later was to be lost at sea in a storm off Cape Hatteras. John looked at her again and shivered, but not from the cold. There was something about her face that made him feel queer. Her eyes seemed almost to be real, instead of just careful daubs of paint. John looked quickl y away and undressed. He climbed into the high bed, so carefully warmed by Brutus and curled up comfortably. The rain beat like pebbles against the windows, and he pulled the covers over his head and went to sleep. The fire crackled in the hearth and died down to a pile of embers.
Suddenly John woke up. He sat bolt upright in bed, listening. What was that? Was somebody screaming? He could have sworn he heard a cry, like that of someone in terror. He looked a:t the windows. The rain had stopped, but the wind was still rattling the panes, and he could hear the faint rush of the high breakers on the other side of the house. Then he heard it again! It seemed to be mixed with the wind and muffled by the rushing water. It was half scream, half sob, as if someone were being choked or drowned.
Then he noticed the peculiar light in the room. It was so faint that he could barely make out the outlines of the furniture and his bag lying open on the chair near the bed. It was like faint moonlight, but there was no moon. The sky was completely dark. It was something inside the room He looked, his eyes wandering about the room and coming to rest on the picture above the mantle. He gave a short gasp, and his eyes bulged at what he saw. It was the picture that was glowing. The white flowing dress of the young girl was shining, like snow does in the moonlight.
John stared at the picture, unable to move, and as he watched, the woman moved. It was such a slight motion that John couldn't be [ 7]
sure, but then it moved again. This time there was no doubt.
The woman in white was walking out of the picture. Straight toward him she came, her head held high, and her hands clasped gracefully in front of her. Slowly, regally she moved toward him.
John yelled, or at least he thought he yelled; but not a sound came. He threw up his arms to cover his face, for the figure was almost on him.
Something brushed his face, something cold, like satin. A dark shadow covered his eyes, shutting out everything. He lost consc10usness.
The next morning, Brutus found him at the foot of the great curved stairway. His hair, which the night before was dark and curly, was now entirely white. When the doctor came, John told them what had happened. Upon investigation the doctor found the room in perfect order, but the portrait was perfectly blank. The woman in white had disappeared.
IL THE OLD COUNTESS
cents go to penny machines) , you might see a tall lady, infinitely old, and swathed in starched white linen from toe to collar button daintily shielding herself from the glare of the midsummer sun with a white silk umbrella as she slowly and majestically made her way down the hot pavements. If you are a native, you nod to her with a smile but if you happen to be a stranger, you are apt to inquire curiously, "Who is that strange creature?" "Why, that's Budenville's countess! Didn't you know we had royalty here?" (This last spoken with a touch of small-town pride at having a creature so enchanting and so glamorous as a titled citizen.)
A little investigation would reveal that this mysterious noble woman was the Madame de Vitiere that the children shouted so gleefully about. Further persistence brings to light the few meagre facts known to the citizenry-that she had been there for twenty-five years, and looked just the same today as she had the day she had arrived in answer to an ad in the Charleston News and Courier for a housekeeper governess in the home of one of the local gentry. She gave her name as Mrs. de It might strike you as odd to hear two peo- Vitiere, and quickly established herself as one ple on the streets of Paris talking in the good, of the family. She kept her past life strictly to solid patois of lower South Carolina, but sup- herself, and was the bane of existence of the pose you were confronted with a troupe of rest of the women in town-they couldn't youngsters, all under the age of ten, teaming squeeze a thing out of her except that she up and down the streets of a sleepy South was a widow, and was from Charleston. She Carolina town, and all shouting French words got along swimmingly, keeping house for the and phrases at the top of their healthy lungs? widower, and teaching his three sons reading, If you stop them and ask the reason for this spelling, and grammar. A minor upheaval linguistic phenomenon, they laugh and shout ensued one day when she received a letter "Madame de Vitiere" and wheel off down the from Marsailles, addressed to Madame la walks. comtesse de Vitiere. The postmistress lost no Some afternoon, when the summer sun is time in telling the town that the old lady was doing its worst, and you are sitting with your foreign, and of the nobility. When asked, friends in an automobile in front of the vil- Mrs. De Vitiere admitted the charges of being lage apothecary's, sipping cokes and lime ices a countess, but said she had dropped the title ( six cents for the cokes, and the other four and pref erred the Mrs., but she also told the
ladies to mind their own business, and not to spend too much time trying to pry into her affairs, because it was no concern of theirs. After this, the good ladies had very little to do with madame la comtesse, and there was all kinds of wild talk, but things soon died down for their lack of momentum. The young boys and girls of the town played quite often in the swings in the oaks which surrounded the house of the countesses three wards, and she gradually became friendly with them. She always had her favorites, and these were accorded many privileges not given to the rest. They could come in and look at her scrapbooks full of picture postcards-scenes from every capital in Europe-Notre Dame and Westminster; Canterbury and Rheims; flower venders in Vienna and gondoliers in Venice. These she would show to her favorites; the rest of the gang would be shunted off into the kitchens to pester the negro cook for cake or cookies. Gradually, from the postcard pictures, she dritf ed into explaining the meaning of the French and Italian words on the cards, and from there it was but a short step to giving them lessons in French in the afternoons. Two of the sons she would pack off with the neighboring kids, the third she would allow to stay, and with her chosen few from the neighborhood, she would entertain them with stories, and ease them into the knowledge of the French language. These stories never went the rounds of the schools or playgrounds, but were kept by the Few, as their own particular secrets to be shared with no one else. Though the mothers pretended not to pay any attention to this differentiation among their offspring, mothers spoke with pride that their child was among the select, and many were the bitter
words spoken by those whose offspring were not so fortunate. As the children grew older, she shunted them aside gradually and absorbed another and younger group. This grew to be a custom, and through the years, once or twice a week, Mrs. de Vitiere had her little Circle, who shared her secrets, and learned to murmur French phrases and compliments. She gave them fairy stories, stories of adventure and piracy, and stories of young people in other countries.
My little brother is at the present moment a particular favorite of madame. He does what none of the others have ever done-he goes to see her almost every day. She is quite old now, and lives in a small house given her by her employer at his death some ten years ago. The three sons are grown, and have sons and daughters of their own, but as far as I know, they do not go to hear madames stories. My young brother seems to hold an odd niche in her affections. She not only lets him look at her postcards, she gives them to him. He brings them home, every day or two, and carefully puts them away in his toy box. The other day a strange thing happened. He brought home with him a picture-which he would let no one look at. He said Madame had given it to him, and told him it was for himself alone, and for no one else to see. He was sitting on the steps late that afternoon, looking at the picture, and I saw it over his sholder. It was the picture of a young boy, just the head, and of the type taken some forty years ago. The boy in the picture was almost the exact counterpart of my brother. The same curly hair, the same high arched eyebrows, the same twinkling, mischievous eyes. And strangest of all, the same pointed, puckish ears.
THE DUMB- MINION OF ARTHUR
(A BED-TIME STORY FOR COLLEGE STUDENTS)
By ETHEL O'BRIEN
Once upon a time there was a little cloud. If the truth must be told it was a rather erratic little cloud. For first it was here and then it was there, and suddenly it wasn't anywhere at all. Now it was pirouetting on the slender minaret towers of the Castle of Camelot; now it was peeking in the window of the Lady of Shallot; · and now it was playing hide-and-seek with the Lady of the Lake.
On the particular day we are talking about -it was a Tuesday, I think-the little cloud put away all temptations. It rose with determination and finality from the white counterpane of mist that hovered over the city of Camelot, and scudded frantically across the sky until it reached the forest of Brocelinda. There it descended slowly through a break in
the trees coming finally to an uncertain standstill over a white hawthorn bush. Then, curiously enough, the little cloud began to talk to itself.
"Late again! I don't see why I bother to get here on time. Well, I suppose there's nothing to do but park and wait."
The cloud landed with a plop crashing into one of the trees.
"Uup-my mudguard," it ejaculated. "The Devil, this zipper's stuck."
"Hi ya, Merlin!" A toad skipped across the path. "Stuck again! Ha! ha! Get a horse! Get a horse!"
The cloud kicked viciously in the direction of the laughter.
"Shut-up," it said crossly, "and quit mind[ 10]
ing other people's business."
The cloud now went into a series of contortions mingled with oaths. Something ripped.
"Darn it! My best invisible shirt. Ah, now I have it."
A hand appeared deftly unzipping the pieces of the cloud which fell to the ground crinkling like a cellophane raincoat. Now a painfully thin match-stick of a man with a long white beard emerged. As he stepped out of the cloud, he tripped over his beard and fell in the hawthorn bush.
"My word, Merlin, but you' re getting feeble," the toad mocked.
The wizard extricated himself with difficulty and glared at the toad .
"Get out of here," he screamed, stamping his foot in rage.
"O.K.-0.K.-Keep your invisible shirt on, brother." The toad disappeared in the grass.
Merlin, disgruntled, sat down alongside of the white hawthorne bush.
Who did Vivien think she was-keeping him, him, Merlin, waiting? When she came he would give her a piece of his mind. Gee, it was quiet. He almost wished the toad was around. It wasn't much fun talking to himself.
Well, if he was going to wait he might as well take a snooze.
Merlin smiled complacently; that perhaps was the best piece of work he'd done.
Then, she had complained about the windows in her bedroom. "They are too small," she'd said, "but, my dear Wizard, much too small."
Yeh, Merlin laughed sardonically, too small for that horsey Launcelot to get in and out. Every time Merlin thought of Launcelot he . shuddered. Boy, Gwinevere had certainly given him the Dickens for putting tacks in Launcelof s armor at the last tournament. But then, Merlin chuckled, Launcelot was noted for his tactlessness.
Exactly what did Gwin think she was putting over on Arthur, he wondered. Poor old Arthur, Merlin sighed, poor old Arthur, he'd certainly degenerated since Gwinevere had made him give up smoking. No wonder he'd turned to collecting antiques. Merlin scratched his nose. If only Arthur wouldn't make such bad bargains. Take that last bunch of Runic rhymes, for instance, which the Druids at Stonehenge had palmed off on him as being five hundred years old-why, even a page could tell they were modern imitations. And then, as if that wasn't bad enough, he'd gone and imported York retainers for valets, just because Gwinevere thought their accents were so quaint.
"Pah," Merlin snorted. And at that last banquet Arthur had given-serving York punch instead of good old Camelot ale! Which reminded him that he was thirsty.
He stretched out his legs and let his head fall back on the cloud. As he looked up through the trees he saw the spires of Camelot and nodded his head in satisfaction. "A Martini without the olive," he ordered, "Not a bad job, Merlin, not a bad job!" addressing no one in particular. He again nodded his head in satisfaction, and "O.K., you're the boss, but I still maintain then thought of Gwinevere. Gwinevere was there is only one way to drink Martinis and definitely a thorn in his flesh. First, she hadn't that is with the olive." liked the color of the drapes in the dining hall. The Voice issued from nowhere in particuHe had to admit that that shade of green did lar, but a tray with a cocktail on it materialbring out all the livid spots in her complexion. ized under the wizard's right hand. Merlin
[ 11)
disregarded the admonition of the Voice altogether.
Arthur hadn't approved of his drinking cocktails since he'd joined the Oxford Movement. In fact Arthur.
Merlin's musings were interrupted by the appearance of a steel-clad head.
"0-Hello, Merlin." The knight pulled up his visor and set a basket of food on the ground. "Nice day, isn't it?"
"Yeh," Merlin was not enthusiastic. "What are you doing here, Gareth?"
"0-nothing-no:thing much-just happened through." Gareth looked uneasily about the clearing.
"Funny," Merlin snorted, "I didn't know you liked picnics."
"Well, I don't," Gareth eased his metal helmet from around his chin. "But Linette thought it would be nice for the children. I had a dragon to kill first, so I told her I'd meet her and the kids in the woods, only now I've forgotten where I said I'd meet her."
"Twenty-seven trees to the right and turn left by the mistletoe bush," the Voice volunteered helpfully.
"Gee, thanks. You're a regular guy." Gareth picked up his basket and clattered off.
Merlin stood up That fell ow irked himhe hadn't the guts of a chicken. And where the Dickens was Vivien? He yawned and decided that what he needed was a bracer.
"A whiskey and soda," he ordered. "Nowait a minute-make it a double Scotch straight."
"You drink too much, Merlin," the Voice chastised. "Before you know it you'll be a regular sot."
"Shut-up!" Merlin was provoked. Things had come to a pretty pass when a man couldn't even trust his own servants. He drank the Scotch and immediately felt dizzy.
"Told you so," the Voice chipped in. "At
your age you can't stand it. Here's a cup of coffee."
Merlin ungraciously accepted the coffee. "How about a doughnut?"
The doughnut appeared. "Um - um, mustn't dunk."
The wizard gave the empty cup back t6 the Voice. Still no Vivien. Well, he was leaving! No dame was going to keep him waiting over an hour.
"Say, Merlin, I don't want to be inquisitive, but didn't you tell your one and only that you'd meet her by the Fountain of Barenton? And shouldn't we be going? She won't appreciate it if you're late."
Merlin was stunned for a moment, then he let out a cry of rage. "Why didn't you tell me that sooner? Fine secretary you make-you' re fired."
"That's what you said yesterday," the Voice remarked complacently.
Merlin bundled himself in his cloud. "Fountain of Barenton," he directed, "and make it snappy. You," he addressed the Voice "can go jump in the lake." _
"The last time you told me to do that the Lady of the Lake got sore, said I was intruding on her boudoir.-Here, let me zip it up."
The cloud reascended until it just grazed the tops of the trees, then it leaped over a goodly section of the forest and descended abruptly.
"Hello, darling." Merlin rapidly unzipped himself from the cloud.
"Hello, yourself!" Vivien drew herself up with stately dignity kicking her train behind her. "I suppose you forgot where you were supposed to meet me."
"Please, darling let me explain. I was " "Explain! ! ! ! So you think you can stand me up for an hour, while you flirt with that sickly little morning-glory, Elaine, the lilymaid of Astolat. You dare come to me reeking
( 12]
of hawthorn perfume and tell me you can explain. I'll speak to Arthur about this. I'll sue you for breach of promise." Vivien threw her train over her arm and stalked through the trees.
"She seems to be a little upset," the Voice remarked conversational! y.
Merlin debated a minute. If he ran after her she was liable to claw his eyes out. "Bring her back," he ordered the Voice.
"Who-me? Nothing doing! I'm merely your valet, not your body guard."
"Come on," Merlin was insistent. "You can have two weeks vacation if you catch her."
"Well," the Voice reconsidered, ''I'll do my best."
A moment later Merlin heard a scream. Then Vivien dropped down in front of him.
"You beast-you snake-you toad!" she hurled at him.
"Sit down!" Merlin ordered.
"I won't!"
"0, yes, you will!" the Voice spoke pleasantly and pushed her down on a rock.
"0, . . . 0, . . . 0, . . . " the Fay began to cry.
"Got a handkerchief, Merlin?" the Voice asked.
ologist of precious stones," it murmured to itself.
"All right," Merlin replied hesitantly. "How much do I get soaked for?"
"If that's the way you feel about it," Vivien sniffed.
"I was just trying to be funny," Merlin laughed feebly. "Give her five grand," he ordered the Voice.
"What!" the Voice expostulated. "Five grand!-There goes my vacation. May I add that I haven't gotten my salary in three months!''
'Tm sorry I was cross," Vivien picked up Merlin's beard and kissed him. "I do wish you'd cut that thing off-it's so annoying, and the girls all tease me about it."
"No!" Merlin was firm. "Anything else, but the beard stays. Think of the publicity I'd lose."
"There you go, always talking business." Vivien pouted.
"N of" his tone was decided, then he relented a little, "I may get a permanent though."
"0," Vivien was delighted, "that would be chic."
The sound of voices and the clash of armor came echoing through the woods.
"The devil, what's that?" Merlin inquired.
"It's Arthur and Gwinevere and the rest."
Merlin was confused. "Vivien, please, darling, please stop crying. I'll-I'll," he took a deep breath, 'TU do anything you want me to." He began to scold the Voice. "What do you mean by hurting her? I told you to be Vivien adjusted her veil. "It was so hot in the gentle." castle Arthur thought it would be nice to go
"Why, you hypocrite!" the Voice was in- camping for a few weeks. While you were dignant. about it, Merlin, you might have made Camelot air-conditioned.''
"There, darling, do stop crying. I'll take you to ye Little Rounde Table Knight Club be Merlin picked up the cloud. "Well, if tonight." they're coming, I suggest we clear out. I'm in
"Well," Vivien brightened up considerably, no mood to hear about Launcelot's new diet. "of course I'll need a new dress, and some Here, get in the cloud." jewelry," she glanced coyly at the wizard. "Too late, Merlin," the Voice warned. The Voice choked, "Why, you-you arche- "Here comes Arthur through the woods. 0,
[ 13]
Arthur, where art thou going?" it hummed to itself.
Merlin turned to see Arthur come clanking into view.
"O, I say, old chap, I'm jolly well glad to see you. We seem to be having a slight degree of difficulty in erecting our tents. They collapse in the middle. What would you suggest doing to remedy the situation? "
"Putting up the central tent pole," advised the Voice.
"Now, that's a very pertinent suggestion. Why didn't I think of it myself?" Arthur adjusted his monocle and strode off.
"That's gratitude for you," the Voice complained. "Come on, Merlin, let's vamoose."
Again the sound of voices invaded the glade.
"Darling, do take me away from all this. 0, Launcelot, carry me off through the forest on your coal black charger."
"But, you know, he won't carry two people, dear. Why he balks every time I gain a few pounds. That's why I have to be so careful of my diet."
"Launcelot, you can speak of balky horses at a time like this! Does my love mean nothing to you? Here, I, Gwinevere, Queen of Camelot am giving myself to you!"
"Well, you are Arthur's wife, you know. Gosh, Gwin, you don't understand-what would the boys in the KY<I> say-after all Arthur is my frat brother."
"Frat brother!" Gwinevere gasped and ostensibly fainted.
"O, dear me, dear me," Launcelot was confused. "O dear me, don't faint. You know it makes me panicky, and that's bad for my heart. Now, where's my smelling salts?"
Launcelot fell through the bushes, halfcarrying, half-dragging the Queen. "O! Hello, Merlin. I-er-didn't know you were around here. May I borrow your smelling
salts? Gwinevere seems to have fainted."
The Voice proffered him a bottle.
"Get those darn things from under my nose!" Gwinevere sat up suddenly . "I might have known Launcelot would fall in with you two." She glared at Vivien and Merlin.
Vivien shrugged her shoulders, "If you don't like our company you can always leave. After all we didn't invite you."
"Don't argue, girls," Launcelot pleaded. " Remember, my heart. "
A blare of trumpets echoed through the woods.
"Good Heavens, what has Arthur gotten into now?" Gwinevere began to run through the woods followed by Launcelot who was busily applying the smelling salts to his own nose, and murmuring, "O, dear, I hope it isn't a dragon. Their fire and brimstone always give me asthma."
"Come along, Vivien. I'd like to wring that guy's neck. He never can give me a moment's rest. I, Merlin, the magician, must waste my talents playing nursemaid to a king."
Merlin moved slowly down the path, Vivien behind him.
"Come on, slow-pokes," the Voice urged. "Well, what's happened?" Gwinevere demanded of the king.
"Happened, my darling?" Arthur looked puzzled. Then his face brightened. "O, you mean the trumpets. Yes, wasn't that appropriate? All my own idea-instead of the tea-bell, since we're roughing it, you know. Have somt tea?" He waved the tea pot in the air invitingly.
The Voice wasted no more time . He produced the cloud and swiftly zipped the wizard and Vivien into it.
"Well," Vivien queried as they coasted over the trees, "where are we going?"
Merlin took a letter out of his pocket and read: "On the fifth day of Julv, 23 A.D.-
[ 14]
to the Dumb-Minion of Arthur-Dear sir: We the undersigned understand that there is not a perfect accord between you and Arthur, King of Camelot," Merlin paused and looked at Vivien. "How would you like a change of scenery, sweetheart?" he asked.
rrNow what's on your mind?" Vivien was susp1c1ous.
"Well," Merlin waved the letter across the cloud, " this letter is from the jousting ace Babe Rutherford and the Big League Jousters of Northumberland They're offering me the position of statistician in their outfit at twice the salary Arthur's giving me. Don't you think we should consider it?"
'Tm for it," the Voice joined in. "You'rcgetting in a rut here, Merlin. Give me the wide open spaces, and big he-men. City life doesn't agree with my constitution. It's too hampering."
" That's all very well for you," Vivien wasn't too pleased, "but what about me? Stuck way off there away from all the girls. No thanks! It wouldn't be fair to the Camelot Bridge Club. "
" Aw, cheese it," the Voice burst in disgruntledly. "Why do you keep her around,
Merlin? She's always throwing a damper on the works."
"Don't let's be hasty, Vivien," the wizard tried persuasion. "If we went we'd be the center of the social whirl. Think of the prestige you'd have!"
"Think of the financial angle," the Voice interposed winningly.
"Tell, you what," Merlin rejoined, ''I'll build you a glass brick house at Bardsley."
"You could cut off that beard too," suggested the Voice. "Statisticians don't need beards. Seriously, Merlin, I wish you'd get out of this place while the getting's good. Wizards are going out of date. Soon they'll want to stick you in a museum. It's just a question of keeping up with the times."
" The Northumberland fashions are all the rage at Camelot," Vivien murmured thoughtfully. "Wouldn't Gwinevere be furious? She's been wanting to get away for years!"
"Come on, Vivien, be a sport!" the Voice argued agreeably.
"Well-all right," Vivien smiled at Merlin, and reached for his beard. "For your sake dear.
Loneliness like a black cloak
Completely envelops me Shutting out all human warmth. Nature, too, conspiring Sends her snow to chill my soul And numb my spirit. It is, perhaps, a welcome anesthesia.
ELEANOR PARSONS. [ 15 J
By STRAUGHAN LOWE GETTIER
For nearly two decades of football rivalry when the Yellow Jacket-Spider game was the the "Spiders" of the University of Richmond crowning event of the football season. and the "Indians" of William and Mary Col- What brought about the shifting of an lege have sought, each Thanksgiving Day, to ancient rivalry from Randolph-Macon to the down the other on the gridiron. The deep- playing fields of William and Mary? We rooted spirit manifested at the rallies which shall see. precede this annual event indicates on both In nineteen thirteen the Richmond Colsides a tradition already ivy-covered. legian headlined its readers with: SPIDERS
Years ago, when Dr. William A. Harris, PUT THE KABASH ON THE LOONIES. professor of Greek and Latin at Richmond Such is the first printed mention of the shift of College, played halfback for the Spider team, tradition. Richmond had defeated William neither the present-day rivalry nor the rules of and Mary on the playing fields of football. the game, as we know them, prevailed. The The Spider team had defeated the "Loonies " Randolph-Macon "Yellow Jackets" were then even before the dignity of tradition had set in. the Spiders' main adversaries. In those bygone J. Vaughn Gary remembers the change from days football resembled the present-day soc- just another team for the Spiders to beat to the cer; there were no hired football coaches, rule team for the Spiders to beat. Between the books, or stop watches. The two teams would years nineteen-eight and nineteen fifteen the meet on neutral ground before a game, agree swing of tradition was as slow and steady as on a few general rules to govern both sides the pendulum of a great grandfather's clock. during play, then retire to their respective ends In nineteen-fourteen Austria declared war of the field to await the starting signal. on Serbia. In nineteen-fourteen the William All morning and all afternoon, with time and Mary Literary Magazine noticed that a out for lunch, the two teams would try to state of war existed between the Spiders and chalk up scores. Dr. Harris remembers those the Indians. Firing the first gun, the Literary days, rather vividly; those days when each M'l?tgazinesaid in effect: "There is something player wore a uniform colored and decorated radically wrong with a school or college to suit the taste of the wearer; those days when which allowed its teams to be coached to win most players sported a nose guard and a han- by any means possible. What more disgustdle-bar moustache, and there was nothing in ing sight is there than to stand on the sidethe rules against trying to tackle a man by lines and watch a team play 'dirty' football grabbing a handful of the upper lip's decora- against eleven men coached to play a clean tion. Those were the days of football players sportsman-like game." (The Spiders were the and the flying wedge. Those were the days ones referred to as playing dirty football.)
[ 16]
Whereupon the Richmond College MESSEN- life," blazoned the C. and 0. placards, "watchGERin an editorial pointed out where the edi- ing us lick the Loonies." torial in the Literary l\!Iagazine was a little off Richmond College, through the successful its course. "Should any consideration," said efforts of Dr. F. W. Boatwright, its president the MESSENGEReditorial, "be given to the then, as now, moved from its original grounds charge of 'roughness' against our team whose located at Grace Street and Lombardy in the attacks in this game were tame as compared city of Richmond to its present site in Westwith those used against both Randolph-Macon hampton. With the acquisition of more space and Hampden-Sydney?" and better facilities Richmond College be-
Picking up where the MESSENGERleft off, gan to grow in size and student body. Wilthe Richmond Collegian stated: "Let us fully liam and Mary College, at the same time, was understand our position. This will be the di- also having growing pains. This growth of mactic game of the football series. It is with the two colleges caused the disbandment of our most cordially hated rival." the Eastern Virginia Intercollegiate Athletic
The following year Mr. Waverly King, Association because of the fact that Hampdenthen known as "Rock" and the best looker on Sydney and Randolph-Macon did not consider the team, played winning football against the themselves equal to play championship footHampden-Sydney eleven. The question as to ball with the now larger and stronger Indians his eligibility to play and whether the victory and Spiders. By the process of default Wilwould count for Richmond was brought be- liam and Mary and Richmond colleges, lookfore the board which controlled the Eastern ing around for suitable rivals, found themVirginia Intercollegiate Athletic Association selves face to face, well matched in athletic to which William and Mary, Hampden-Syd- prowess . ney, and Richmond belonged. The question After the dissolution of the E.V.I.A.A. gave rise to a slightly "strained" relationship Richmond College joined the Southern Conbetween William and Mary and Richmond. f erence. It was then that the Spiders began to Fist :fights between students of the respective enter championship competition with other schools became a regular order for the day schools. There are those who believe, specuwhen the two schools met for their peaceful latively, of course, that Richmond is gradually gridiron battle. The climax came when the leaning toward an ivy-covered rivalry with police arrived en masse and politely escorted V.M.I., ending the now traditional Indianthe visiting Spiders to their waiting train and Spider Thanksgiving Day slaughter. Howbid them a bon voyage as far as Richmond. ever, there are stronger indications that the
Where the nickname "Loonies" came from present-day rivalry will continue until one or and how it happened to be applied to the Wil- the other calls "uncle" for keeps. liamsburgites is lost in the dim dark past of
For years there was no Thanksgiving Day antiquity. What used to rub salt into the game between the Spiders and the Indians be- wounds of the Indians were the prophetic advertisements issued by the Chesapeake and cause on that day the University of Virginia Ohio Railroad concerning their "Spider Spe- usually played the University of North Carof lina in Richmond. For some reason the Indian - cial" which they ran to Williamsburg or the convenience of the Richmond student body Spider games could not be played at Wiland friends. "You'll have the time of your liamsburg to the best possible gate advantage.
[ 17]
It was not until the Virginia-Carolina teams withdrew their battles to other parts of the state some fifteen years ago that the Richmond-William and Mary rivalry really hit its stride.
In the past few years the rivalry has become so intense that the rally bonfires have to be guarded so that they will not be burnt beforehand by some marauding collegians of the rival school. Those caught are held as hostages, returning to their home campuses shaven of hair and with something to talk
about for years to come. Time, the healer of wounds, slipped up for once. As the years g0 by the raw wounds of William and Mary and Richmond are salted time and again by the increase of friction. Soon the gargantuan helmeted figures of the God Football will meet again on Thanksgiving Day while the crowds roar their approval and otherwise. None the less, it is the sportsmen of both schools who look on the battle with interested eyes murmuring to themselves: "May the best team
Laughing gargoyle
Figure of stone, staring stone
Laughing there, In inane grinEmpty, toothless, mocking grinAping man.
Laughing gargoyle
Close your mouthHideous, gaping, insidious mouthDeriding man.
Laughing gargoyle
Close your eyesLeering, staring, squinting eyes Scorning soul.
ETHEL
O'BRIEN.
[ 18]
Grey rain outside the glass, Deep shadows fall inside. Heavy chairs deep red In cornered darkness hide.
Carressing sound of rain, Old smell of dusty booksA deathly peace emits From out the somber nooks.
Old draperies hung for years Stir never from their folds, Stand green and gaunt in tiers Of atmospheric mold.
Then suddenly a light
Cuts knif elike through the black. A shadow blots the beam; Tranquility comes back.
A woman's graceful form Goes rustling to the desk That stands like lechered lust Against the wall grotesque.
The trembling sound of keys, · A panel groans apartA pack of letters old Are pressed against a heart.
Eyes blinding full with tears
Pretend to read the lines Already memorized And printed on the mind.
The packet is returned; She turns toward the wall \Vhere a brilliant jacket hangs, Remnant of Glory's Hall.
She kisses both the sword And the medals hanging there. There is a smell of blood And manhood, young and fair.
SHADOW PLAY
[ 19]
She turns toward the door And lets in again the light. The room across the hall Is colorful and bright.
A gust of rain is blown Like sand across a bar, And on the carpets plush Two children play at war.
F. LAFOON.
F.LAFOON
1t.e Cotte1t 1 s ~uttda~?no1tuiu9
(Being a true sequel to Tam o'Shanter, a Tale)
Whan Tam o ' Shanter woke at morn, Wond'ring why he had been born, The tables and the lamps were rockin
In Shanter ' s head there was a knockin, His tongue felt like an old wool stockin. He tentatively oped one eye (pro. eeeee) He opened up his eyen twain. That little man was there again. * *
The horn that once through Thomas Hall
The soul of music shed, Now hangs as mute upon the wall
As if that soul were fled; So sleeps the pride of former days, So glory ' s thrill is o'er; His roommate hid the mouthpiece And C-section sleeps once more.
Abou Ben Adhem (May his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace And saw within the moonlight in his room
A stranger with some papers in his hand. Exceeding peace had swelled Ben Adhem' s head And to the presence in the room he said, "What ha vest thou? " The stranger smiled, and said, " A summons, Bud. Your windows open grand!" * *
Bill collectors all remind us, We should pay our debts on time, Or some morning we will find us, In the clinker doing time.
Qll 1utt • (tt
a Couttt't~ '5a'ttt~a'td
The sawmill blows the knell of parting day
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the milking of these cows to me.
Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight And in the air a.familiar odor floats
A staying fragrance lingers through the night: The combination smell of hogs and goats.
No murmur breaks this calm and peaceful scene Save one that flows along as smooth as silk. The gentle hum of that great new machine
The farmer uses to extract the milk. * *
I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he, I mounted, Dirck mounted, we mounted all three; "Good speed," cried the watch, as he gave us the rmgs
With a dignity due to his service to kings. The music began, the man pulled a bolt, And the merry-go-round started off with a jolt.
* *
Blessings on thee, little man, Hotfoot boy, with your swing band, With your moany tenor croons, And your hot gutbu~ket tunes, With your hot lips, hotter still, Take a million dollar ride, Bind me on the solid side, Give out with that real floy joy; Blessings on thee, Hotfoot boy!
Unb'LidledPe9asus
Unbridled Pegasus pranced upon a star, Snorted elegantly and pawed star-dust Into the face of the ringed moon.
His wings, great white arcs in the star-light, Unspread luminously. With a wild neigh He cantered off onto the Milky Way, Grazing on trylon-pointed stars And perispheres of moon-glow.
Unbridled Pegasus trotted on sky-paths Star-strewn and comet-conscious.
His mane, evanescent in rainbow lights Streamed in shining waves on unfelt winds. Pegasus-unbridled, undaunted, untamedRaced exultantly across the void of time.
ETHEL
O'BRIEN.
Who all the power of time and space
Has captured with a kiss. R.J.M.
The desert lies a silver waste Beneath a tropic moon.
The undulating horizon Rolls on from dune to dune.
A breeze wafts thru the whisp' ring palms
The scent of desert bloom; While overhead a thousand stars
Bedeck a wall-less room.
Before me countless ages old, Still vibrant with the heat Of vanished sun, a temple stands, Its shadow at my feet.
In endless line around the wall
A caravan moves on.
Led by the hand of night they seek
The generations gone.
But I have eyes alone for that \Yhich in time's pulsing tide, Is consummated by the sight
Of her who by my side
With youth and beauty overawes
The dignity of this.
The bats come 'round this windy hill at night, And fly so low you almost touch their backs And feel the air blown 'round you by their wings; But there is quiet and solitude besides And crickets' noise sometimes, and music never still Of whispering pines, who know the answer well
To all the mysteries we think so hard to learn. And when the moon comes slowly o'er the rim
Of the deep hills, so purple in the duskI of ten think of you-and of the still, dark night, The air was damp, and slim, grey fog caressed The parting day with long, slow strokes.
Later it stormed, and sudden was the wind And_ rain-drenched berries knocked mournfully Agamst the trees. I cried that nightYou laughed-you did not see-I cried inside-And hurt more deep than wounding of a bird Was mine that night. I wish I had not criedI should have known that eagles fly too highI come upon this hill in gloom, grey dusk And think my unforgotten thoughts of you.
KIRA NICHOLSKY.
From mad ecstatic love of yesterdays She awakened to the truth beneath that haze: Love's but a drug and fragmentary drea ·m, A haunting, snaring melody, 'twould seem: For with each light caress he made a wound, Until the freedom of her heart was doomed. The tempest beauty of young love will mar, And bonds will not remove without a scar. If he had depth enough to sense her pain, Would he design to break a heart again?
PHYLLIS ANNE COGHILL.
f!h.tiu.ce~Af4rfe -f!!etI~
(A selection from Saunier's Anthology of English Literature)
Fragment I
Group A
Whan 1 that 2 Aprille 3 with 4 his 5 shoures 6 soote 7
The 8 droghte 9 0£ 10 March 11 hath 12 perced 13 to 14 the 8 roote 15 , 1111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111,1111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111;,
NOTES
1 Whan Adverb derived from the AngloSaxon n-declension verb ghoruthybzxct 1 which meant to swallow. The verb ghoruthybzxct is evidently of onomatopoetic origin. Whan is simply a phonetic spelling of the original form.
2 that Disjunctive pronoun as in Modern English. Its use here suggests the possibility that Chaucer was writing about a period either before or after the time of writing. Silverstein, in his book, Chaucer?} maintains that it was still winter when Chaucer wrote the Canterbury Tales. He bases his view on the fact that a pair of plaid earmuffs was found between the pages of Fragment I. Milquetoast, in his Chaucer!} states on the other hand that the Tales were written after the April mentioned, explaining the presence of the earmuffs with the rhetorical question, "Is there any better place to put a pair of plaid earmuffs?" He also points out · that since Chaucer was not schooled in modern newspaper technique he could not have written about the pilgrimage before it happened.
3 Aprille Proper noun referring to lunar period between the months of March and May. There has been no evidence submitted that time in Chaucer's period advanced in a manner very different from that of the present
day. The double consonant spelling is an excellent example of the double consonant spelling.
4 with Preposition deri:7ed from the AngloSaxon stem zxcaehtggghwxt 1 meaning accompanying. The example of the original stem most frequently quoted is found in Beowulf, line 8465: "Mrs. Beowulf then sang while Grendel was zxcaehtggghwxt her on the bassoon." Zxcaehtgghwxt 1 too, is easily seen to be of onomatopoetic origin. The Grundelian bassoon and the modern bassoon have a similar tone quality.
5 his Possessive pronoun, referring to Aprille. This use suggests personification of time, an element found in several of Chaucer's works. Early translators assumed that Aprille was a person because this pronoun was used in reference to it, but this has since been disproved by Goldberger of Harvard. Goldberger explains that any Middle English person subject to showers, as Chaucer leads us to believe is Aprille's case, would be considered insane and therefore unworthy of Chaucer's notice.
6 shoures The meaning here approaches that of the Modern English showers. A Chaucerian shower was, however, of a different nature from what the words connotes to us. A Chaucerian shower was an irregular form of precipitation which varied from a London fog to a Scottish tempest. Joe Miller, in his lJOOO Best Medieval Stories} explains that the basis of many of the Chaucer and Boccacio stories is the fact that the populace was forced to stay inside for days at a time during these showers. Purkle, in his Lives and Habits of the Middle English} explains [ 22]
that the only heated rooms in Middle English architecture were upstairs.
7 soote This word was first translated literally, creating the erroneous belief that the Middle English April was a month of sooty showers. The fact that the factory system did not rise in England until way after everyone has read the Decameron cast a shadow of doubt upon this translation, however. As the years progressed the previous translation was changed to "suitable showers," with the belief that the letters able on the manuscript had moulded. Still later the idea prevailed that every year April sent a "suite of showers," until today the translation is "sweet showers." The latest translation came as an accident, originating as a pun upon the word "suite" made by a kitchen-maid and overheard by Perpetrate, the great Middle English authority.
8 the Definite article derived from the AngloSaxon yyf.
9 droghte In his course in "Breezy Medieval Stories," Professor Samuel Clement Pebble has laid down the theory ·that the word should be translated draught, since March is obviously a draughty month. The March Drug Company claimed in its advertisements for years that this indicates the early origin of their concern. In Beowulf the word ref erred to the action of dragging a person along the ground, as. "Grendel was killed and _hisbody droghte the morgue." All these points have been nullified, however, by the recent discovery of a note on the back of the manuscript. This note, evidently placed there by Chaucer himself, explains that the word is the Modern English "drouth."
10 of Preposition of possession derived from the Anglo-Saxon expletive garrumph, meaning I gotcha.
11 March Were it not for the capitalization of
the word in the original manuscript it would be interpreted as the "drouth of a march," indicating that walking made the Middle English as thirsty as it does the Modern English. But since the capitalization is evident and nothing has ever been found to refute the translation as the month of March, that construction must necessarily stand.
12 hath In Bullfinche's Anthology of Chaucer and Boccacio, (Fraternity Convention Edition) the word is explained to be the modern has. No reason to oppose this translation has yet come to light.
13 perced This is a verb which derived from the actions of Lord Perc"yArbuckle, Middle English columnist who wrote the "Ye Dirty Doings" column in the London Times. Lord Percy was challenged to a duel by an irate Duke whom he had charged with possessing a mistress. The Duke was highly angered, as he had by that time come to possess two. In the ensuing battle, held in the choir loft at W estminister Abbey, Percy ran his sword through the slighted Duke. This would not have been so unusual but for the fact that Percy followed the sword with an axe, two plow-handles and a one-pounder cannon. Thereafter when daylight could be seen through an individual he was said to have been "Percyed." The form was later shortened to perced.
14 to Preposition derived from the AngloSaxon imperative ztcxvchaeioupl, which has been interpreted by Gluckensteinberger, one of the more liberal translators, as being the approximate of the Modern English get the h - - - out of here. Its contraction into to shows what havoc time wrought with the pure Anglo-Saxon. The idea of moving rapidly from one place to another was transposed from the original imperative to the prepositional form to.
[ 23]
1
5 roote The correct derivation of this word has been a puzzle to eminent English students for years. Were it not for other uses of the word by writers following Chaucer we would immediately grasp the word as referring to the modern root or foundation. But in the writings of Bugby, one of the more illiterate writers who followed Chaucer, we find the comment that "The Guild play at Westminister Abbey ain't nothing to roote home about." Another discoricert-
ing use is found in a morality play produced shortly after Chaucer's death. Here Judas is given the line, "They gimme the roote." The word cropped up again in the nineteenth century Perils of Pauline, a drama where an academic student is given the line "rootetoot-toot." Since none of the meanings attached to the word here have any reasonable inclusion in the sentence in question, the first assumption, that the word is the modern root, must stand.
In keeping with the traditional policy of endeavoring to give the paying customers a magazine of versatile appeal THE MESSENGERmade another survey this fall to determine just what the modern student likes to read. The survey was surprisingly easy to conduct for most people are generous with opinions and our questioners soon found themselves knee-deep in helpful criticism. The literary societies, Mortar Board, professors , and typical students including a stray freshman discussed THE MESSENGER.The type of material which individuals liked best varied in detail, but many features are enjoyed in common by the student body. For instance , everybody seems anxious to have articles about local people whom we all know. In this issue Stukie Hoskins , who is known for putting color and touchdowns in our football, has admirably filled the bill with his "My Experiences in Sports." The Thanksgiving season brings thoughts of turkey to the nation , but University of
Richmond students are primarily reminded of the game with William and Mary. Straughan Getti er, in his "Birth of a Rivalry," traces back through many years to find the origin of this pigskin contest. Readers who crave the sheer luxury of high art-who want words to sparkle like champagne and present magnificent pictures, will find it in Eth el O ' B ri en' s poem, " Unbridled Pegasus" as well as in her delightfully fantastic narrative, " The Dumb-Minion of Arthur." Kira Nich olsk y does much the same thing in blending the fleetin g nuances with a sympathetic nature to give artistic unity in " The Purple Dusk ." . . . Students who have pursued Chaucer amid the heckling of footnotes will find solace in Paul S auni er' s " Chaucer Made Clear." In " Two Tales of South Carolina " Bill M an er presents authentic bits of legend and local color from the Old South M ESSENGERreaders are familiar with 'illustrations in pen and ink and pencil by Fl or enc e L aF oo n. In this issue she combines her talent for drawing with an excellent first poem. Miss LaFoon's " Shadow Play" embodies a delicate thrust from a new angle a t the old subject of war.
BOOKS
THE TREE ?FLIBERTY. By Elizabeth Page:
Farrar & Rrnehart, New York. 973 pages. Price
$ 3 00
In recent years, with the exception of a few timely novels which soon fell into the best-seller class, the fashion for historical fiction has dwindled. A desire among readers for greater historical accuracy has deprived many of the more discriminating, and , perhaps, younger, readers , from the enjoyment whtch , several decades ago , was derived from the works of such writers as Mary Johnston, or Emerson Hough , citing two diverse examples. So we ~ay consi?er the attempt of Elizabeth Page to depict a period of such tremendous scope and influence as the late eighteenth century as especially heroic at this time.
The author has stated that, as a background for her novel , she chose the time of Thomas Jefferson, wh o se fertility of mind affects the growth of the " Tree " as no other factor could do, believing that the era in which he lived corresponded closely to the present day, as an age of equal perplexity Her " Tree" has its roots in the rocky soil of Albemarle and in the finer soil of Tidewater, with those varying backgrounds having their full play in its development. The " Tree " grows to its maturity in the rough region of the Blue Ridge and the Shenandoah , spreading its branches throughout the newly-formed States
I have said that the author ' s attempt was heroic. It was more than that. Her perception of the minds of men, and of the conflictin g ideas and purposes which were combined in the harsh days of the new independence, is fresh and vital. Vividly , through the eyes of a sturdy American family-that of Matthew Howard and Jane-the tale of colonial
world of chaos to a time doubly in need of that strength . CHARLOTTEANN DICKINSON.
THE BRANDONS. By Angela Thirkell. Alfred A. Knopf, New York, 1939. $2.50.
If books are to be chewed, tasted, or swallowed whole, this one is to be nibbled slowly like chocolate peppermint. Mrs. Thirkell must have had a wonderful time writing it, and the reader certainly has the most fun imaginable out of it. The Brandons are people-not personages or characters, but just people. Every small town should have a set, and lucky the mortals who can be classed as "Brandons," for theirs is more than a charmed existence- it is a charming one.
Take this book out under a sunshiny tree in the gold of autumn and gloat over the sheer joy of scampering through its pages.
The cover is sprinkled with full-blown roses in the same day-in-June mood as the contents. Open ~he vol ume , slump down comfortably in a position m whtch one could never read an "instructive book," and you are happy. Gone is the international situation , gone the physics assignment, and gone even the problem of Aunt Fanny's birthday present, for you are with the Brandons. .
Mrs. Brandon is the star of the book. She is the personification of all that is naive yet shrewd, foolish yet kind, in humanity. Her unwitting diplomacy untangles the tightest knots painlessly, and in the next moment winds them up again with the best of motives. What happens to the poor pastor and his pupil in their Mrs. Brandon-worship, the delightful ravings of Mrs. Brandon ' s " tall, handsome son, " Francis, and all the rest make a whirlpool of fun that can lij;\"htenthe heaviest burden a reader can bear - the load of world troubles piled up by the rest of his carefully chosen reading.
Writers will lau~h at The Brandons , but there can be no derision in their laughter. With a literary stvle that flows like a well-trained fountain pen, Mrs. Thirkell tells her tale in a series of closely following episodes that show us her Brandons like well-dramatized bits of verse, and the only real regret in the reader's experience is at the realization on reaching the last page that there isn't any more.
VIRGINIAMcLARIN.
_ America, its struggle with England, and the equally trying post-Revolutionary era is revealed. It is here that both lay-reader and historian can meet on common ground. The balance which Miss Page has maintained between story and history is a splendid thing . For there is here neither a thin Among the new books in the library-Christ in thread of story hanging from a heavv presentation Concrete , by Di Donato; The Young Melbourne , of history nor a scant smattering of fact to lend by Cecil; Revolution of Nihilism , by Rauschning; an authoritative note to a superficial romance. March of Fascism, by Rausenbush; American Folk Elizabeth Page has spoken with strength of a Plays, by Koch.
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qlattce
Is it peculiar that Napoleon was ill at ease in the presence of others? He usually stood. While they sat he pace<l nervously up and down. Never, with his knowledge, was his picture sketched or his portrait painted unless the artist was standing below him. Always the boots he wore were high of heel and in them he stood erect. Why?
Napoleon was small of stature but alert physically. His imagination was as unusual as his mind and perhaps there lies the answer. Napoleon thought of himself as a giant among men. It would have been impossible for him to dream on so large a scale had he not fitted himself into it as master. Always the pyramid of achievement and conquest was incomplete without the little figure of the emperor at the top. Does it seem incongruous that one so constantly attempting to escape his limitations should be disturbed by the intrusion of reality?
In seeking conviction of his own value, Napoleon stumbled upon one of the secrets of power. This may in part explain his unceasing activity. Napoleon chose rather to stand upon the crown than to wear it. Plunging from campaign to campaign, Napoleon welded his armor in the heat of combat. The snows of Russia, the dust of Egypt, the smoke of battle-they all veiled his smallness and from these cloaks of confusion he became a voice, issuing orders, being obeyed, for a short while omnipotent.
It is upon small things that the destinies of nations turn.
A six-inch lack of height in a small man started an avalanche of action which turned aside the course of history.
They say that the lands around the Mediterranean have a remarkably clear visibility most of the time. Even the islands, - which are rugged and towering, have moments when the fogs of evening blow aside and reveal the far horizons. Thus it may have been that the Little Corporal, the Lilliputian Gulliver, climbed, in the last days of his exile, to the peaks alone, there to stand on a pinnacle overlooking the sea below him while the mists of twilight and of weariness closed in about him, shrouding him from reality and from life. R.
J.M.
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