February,1942
says LOIS
Star of Stage and S creen always Mild always Cooler-Smok:: and Better-Tasting the steady smok f g ...that's what k e o mo ma es Ch Chesterfields t re smokers every d esterfield ogive yo d ay. You c than you ever had b ., u, ay m and day out an count on • ,,or, S • mor,,mok · its right co b' o make youc mg pl,asuc, m mat10n f next pack Ch to work to g· o the wodd's finest estecfield and tve you all cigarette tob you want ;n a c;gacette
UNIVERSITY OF RICHMOND
Editor- i n-Chief
MARY GRACE SCHERER
R i ch mo nd College Editor Westhampt o n College Edit o r
ALLISTER McKENZIE
Assistant Editors
JANICE LANE
Ed ito rial Staff
FRANCES ELLIS
LILA WICKER
RosE KALTUKIN
NANCY MASTERS
ERNEST MOONEY
ED LUTTRELL I
B11siness Manager
ROBERTS BLACK Art Staff
ANN BYRD TucKER
MARIANNE WADDILL
LOUISE WILEY
FRANCE S BEAZLEY
Assista n t B u sin ess Man ag er
THOMA S J. CURTI S
VOL. XLIX FEBRUARY, 1942 No 3
From Time
"The highest award in the land is the Congressional Medal of Honor. It was given to only 94 super-heroes in all of World War I. Last week it was awarded for the first time in World War II-posthumously to Second Lieutenant Alexander Nininger Jr. of the Philippine Scouts, for 'intrepidity above and beyond the call of duty.'
"Sandy Ninninger was a gentle boy , not one with an urge for heroics. Sandy was a friend of beauty, he loved poetry; his father once caught him reading Baudelaire in French, and chided him for it. He wrote secretly. He loved music; at West Point he hated the bleak life-drill, drill, drilland tried to relieve it by organizing concerts. Last May he persuaded Helen Jepson to give a Sunday afternoon recital at the Academy. When he graduated last June he remarked that the first thing he wanted to do with his new pay was to buy a gramaphone and some records. His favorite was Tchaikovsky's Pathetique. He loved the theatre: his father was an actor.
"The deed that Sandy Nininger did in the Philippines was beautiful only in its violence; it was dedicated to the hope that other American boys might enjoy the beautiful things for which Sandy Nininger never seemed to have enough time. The deed as described in his citation. . . .
" 'Although wounded three times, he continued his attacks until he was killed after pushing alone far within the enemy position. When his body was
found after recapture of the position, one enemy officer and two enemy soldiers lay dead around him.'"
Like Sandy Nininger we l ive now facing a world believing in violence, not beauty. Like Sandy Nininger there seems never to have been enough time before. Necessarily we are pushed-all of u s -to highest acceleration. We are stretched taut mentally, physically and spiritually For maximum efficiency there is a need for frequent release from the tenseness. Our minds, our bodies and our spirits, once loosened, will respond with even greater spontaniety . There is no place on ou r campus today for even one more organization But there is room for-there is a need for actua l relaxation. Like Sandy we will find it in the beautiful things-perhaps in music.
The music hunger of the appreciative layma n is not always satisfied by another activity in tha t department, thou g h the services rendered by thes e groups cannot be overestimated. Such an additio n is not advocated. It is suggested , however , that th e students become more acutely aware that withi n our very reach is a rare treasure house. Made mor e available, if we desire , it will serve its purp o se wit h bountiful results.
Many students have approached the subject by asking if there is not somewhere on our campus a library of records that they love. There is just such a collection in our own music department. Othe r colleges with student cooperation, have put thei r resources to use by establishing record ,room s which are open most of the time for listeners. Th e browsing room is for the lover of books; canno t there be a similar room for the lover of music? A s splendid a collection as ours should be enjoye d more of ten than once a week by a handful enrolle d in the Music Appreciation Course. Abuse of such a sanctuary as proposed would prove our unworth iness, and any damage would be repairable. Of a ll times the need for such relaxation seems to b e more urgent today . The fact that Radio Guil d Concerts of classical music were not supported in the past was due undoubtedly to the fact that th e hour arranged was impossible for many wh o wanted to be there. All cannot take such an opportunity at one time. Its purpose can be achieve d only if the music can be enjoyed in the middle of morning classes, or after "labs," in the short tim e before dinner, or in the twilight half-hour spent in the cloister In times of war and peace music is a part of our University. Now more than ever w e are hungry for it.
This answers the query of the students longin g (Continued on page 15)
[ 2 J
By BEN ROUZIE, '44
THE viciously festive twirlings of Brahm's Hungarian dances moved through the dining room of Shanghai's Hotel International. Away from the grand piano the notes whirled, stimulating, mood-making, whirled through the hall between the tables and administered like special waiters to the guests, then weaved on to the vacant mezzanine and to the discordant lobby beyond. To those in expensive clothing at the very proper tables of the dining room, the music was a vision of gaiety. To the young pianist it was a veritable entity of living.
Of that virile sound Karl Hainz, a refugee from the art-atrophy of Nazi Germany, was the source. Karl loved the music of Johannes Brahms as only an exile can love an object of art-an exile who has no love but the portable art of his estranged homeland . He saw each measure of the music while he pursuaded the vigorous chords: the whirlpool of each woman's skirt, the athletic grace of each Magyar man-the gay dances of Hungary, danced to the music of an immortal German. He saw the artistry of Brahms as he played each chord, and that was why he saw nothing else.
Hainz did not see Sy Johnson, the Negro, as he moved casually toward the piano and stood at the treble end. The patchwork joy of Budapest, the blended Hungarian noise of festivity, his confidence in the immortal supremacy of German art, all were being felt into the piano by the strong hands of the young German. It was therefore with preoccupation that he realized Johnson was tapping at his shoulder, with preoccupation which became resentment when Johnson told him in quick Negro speech "Yo' time is up, fella-my time now." Karl struck the last bold chord of the dance and rose from the bench. Quickly he walked away.
With dignity he walked away from the piano, away between the tables while the applause was still mumbling in scattered sound-groups, away to the door at the far end of the hall and on to the mezzanine. There he stopped and gripped the railing above the business-as-usual jumble below. He was angry.
He heard Johnson's stylings-blues, ragtime, boogie -woogie--and he heard the applause the diners tendered Sy Johnson. He compared it with the applause drawn five minutes before by Johannes Brahms. They had not, he noted, whistled when he concluded Brahms. They were whistling now-once or twice-and the spirit of the applause seemed to have changed from grave to frivolous yet from polite, somehow, to sincere. And Karl was jealous. He was not jealous of Johnson himself or of his artistry; that he held in arrogant contempt. He was jealous rather of the Negro's music, or of the regard the Americansand the British and French, too-indicated for the syncopation that Hainz could only hate.
Many times he had stood close to the little Negro while the stunted brown fingers bounced lightly on the keys. He had reared and cherished a hatred of the Negro's tapping heel beneath the piano and his husky little sighs as he improvised through the middle of blues numbers. To Karl, who had studied every type of music except jazz, it seemed that Johnson was profaning Brahms and Bach and Wagner and Beethoven by playing at the same piano which had so recently expounded their masterful chords. It seemed too that with every evening's recital, first classics and then jazz, the Negro's absurdly simple ad-lib playing and his fanatical love of improvization would become unbearable. And indeed, his distaste for jazz had become an emotion which had grown with the rhythm of each syncopated outburst until it had become second only to the pianist's great obsession.
No hatred in all the works of God or man, thought Hainz, could replace his hatred for Der Fuehrer. For no other emotion could he have better reason, for no other emotion a more flesh-andblood support. Hatred of the little psychopathic Austrian was Karl Hainz' s great obsession, an obsession which, he realized now on the mezzanine above the drunkenly active chess board of the lobby, had become in him more than blood or love of personal happiness.
Karl released the railing finally and strode to the employees' room, where he dressed for the [ 3 J
street and agreed with the German janitor-perhaps for the hundredth time-that Hitler undoubtedly would be dethroned in the spring. He went then, hating Hitler and jazz, to his bachelor apartment in a modest section of the International Settlement.
Sy Johnson, meantime, was playing his inborn blues and finding the international patrons largely appreciative. Many of them had never before actually listened to jazz; yet now like children they picked up the new auditory toy and found it an amusing thing. As Johnson's strong little fingers roamed in the bass clef on the pattern of the blues and minced over melancholy chords in the treble, the audience came to enjoy very positively the happy-sad music of the American Negroes and to appreciate the originality of the squat little brown man who played it so well.
Sy Johnson, too, had an obsession. He had been born in Tennessee, where the white man rules. in Memphis, where the two most profound influences in his early cognizance had been the undulating blues of his father's piano and the gross injustice impressed by the law on Negroes. His father had died as the result of a vicious beating by police when they had gagged a riot in the dancehall. Unnecessary blows from a nightstick-blows dealt with impunity because he was "just a nigger" -had formed a fatal blood clot and bound his musical fingers forever. Sy's young mother had wept aloud in the charity ward, and the twelveyear-old boy had stood by and tried to understand why they had killed his father.
Soon enough he had understood why. Too soon, for peaceable living in Memphis, he had realized the Negro would require generations to rise from the social mud of the South and be recognized as a positive contributor to American culture. Life in Tennessee had become unbearable on this realization, and Johnson had gone north with his talent to Philadelphia.
Even in Philly, however, he had found among the Negroes a disdain for their southern kinsmen. He had gone for his keep to a piano in a cheap dance hall patronized by both Negroes and whites, but there he had been forbidden to play blues because the Negro patrons had no taste for the original jazz of the Southland.
"You iggorant little nigger," the dirty white proprietor had told him the first night when the crowd had sniffed at a blues number, you play stuff like 'Heartbeat of Dusk.' An' you play it right, like it's wrote down there!"
For three weeks Sy had "played it right," and then he had left for Harlem.
Harlem had been better, but not good enough. There he had heard that the Far East cherished no prejudice against Negroes, and he had worried his way to San Francisco and thence to Hong Kong and Shanghai. Here he had escaped at last the popular bias that Memphis revered, and here he had found that what a man could do, not what color one or more of his parents had been, determined the ceiling of his success. Sy Johnson had been successful.
While Johnson's repertoire was expiring with light improvizations, Karl Hainz brooded in his apartment over Mein Kampf. He often read the story, not for any pleasure in observing the success of Der Fuehrer's program, but to count the many weaknesses in the Nazi philosophy and to reassure himself that Germany's dream of a "new world order" was nothing more than the ancient screening of conquest by the obsession of an abstract idea . Far past midnight he read and scoffed, arid then he drank his customary stein of beer and got into bed. He fell asleep much later.
It was at breakfast that Karl's brow finally relaxed and the Hotel International seemed wholesome to him once more, though the waiter who served his wurst and eggs at the employees' table noted no radical change in his manner. Ten minutes later, however, when Sy Johnson entered the room and seated himself proudly beside the white man, the waiter was incredulous. Hainz, he saw , was smiling at the Negro.
"You will know," he said to Johnson in slow English, "that I have experienced a change."
"Yeh? Wha' s 'at?" Sy asked.
"I can now listen to your music without pain, " Hainz told him. "I wish now to appreciate you r music, for last night as I lay hating Hitler I realized that I, too, have been guilty of the thing I lef t Germany to escape-intolerance. I should not b e content without apologizing to you and telling t o you my wish for this appreciation of your music. "
Karl settled to his wurst and eggs as the Negro paraphrased the declaration into his own thoughtwords. Sy was grinning.
"Yeh," he said, "I been thinkin ' yo' music wa s jes' a lot a chords too, but las' night I got a goo d whiff a that stuff you played an' I like it." He slashed happily at his fried eggs and Virginia ham "You an' me been thinkin' jes' alike," he told th e German finally, "an' we been thinkin' jes' like th e folks we lef' behin' us."
"Yes," said Hainz, "but I have changed m y manner of thought. From now I shall tolerat e everything but intolerance." [4}
{ I was running down hill to feel the mist \ \ before the wind blew it down the valley. §.
( Sallow grass and spiders' weeds brushed ) my legs, and I was glad no one had stopped to pull them up. Why should these weeds
( like old houses and people make room for } a terraced garden or rows of mountain corn? Yet change goes hand in hand with birth
( and death. Tender blades of corn in new ) ploughed earth mean stumbling over the rotting brown stalks of golden rod. A few
( handfuls of corn meal will be exchanged for ) the sunlight through the mist. Because I was young I could not remain still. ( I only rnn faste,~Reeing \ _ _ from the pictures of my thoughts. }
( Early in the morning the day is like fresh ) bread, cooling on my grandmother's table. It is a shining complete gift-not marred ( by every day monotony or half wasted and ) left to spoil by careless hurry. The fog made me feel as renewed as the moist earth.
f When I reached the bottom of the hill I ran \ \ across the road into the pines on the other §.
) side. I slowed down to enjoy the pungent scent of the pine needles whispering among themselves. No one had been before me and ( I was the first one to break the spider ) webs across the path. It was a tragedy to pass through before the sun could turn ( those fragile barriers into silver ropes ) holding up rainbow balls. The moss ( among the old leaves felt like velvet } to my bare feet.
On the other side of the pines I grabbed '§ on the top of the bank so that my feet ) \ would not slip in the red clay. Two night drivers of a Brooks Transportation [ truck whining up the hill blew the horn ) \ hard as they tried to scare me into the ditch. · '§ I couldn't help but laugh as I ran on \. down the wad. )
[ 5 ]
By ELAINE BARRETT, '45
"What'll it be , soldier? "
The boy in uniform hunched over the chromium and wood counter of Nick's Tavern (Italian spaghetti special today) discontinued his moody inspection of the three paper roses flowering surprisingly from an empty catsup bottle behind the salt and pepper shakers.
" Beer-make it draft ."
Nick drew the beer , idly examining meanwhile his customer by means of the slightly yellowed gilt-edged mirror extending behind the counter the length of the room . " Draftee probably . I'd say from the middle west-that lost look about him . Nice looking kid. "
" Anythin g else , soldier?"
The kid stared stupidly at him
" Yeah , no - nothin g else. Thanks. "
Nick took up his towel and began polishin g skillfully, one after another, the already glittering glasses lined up ready for the evening rush. Midafternoon was always slack. Place would begin to jump around 5 : 30 when the commuters began to pour in. He examined his domain critically Empty leather boothes , clean shining tables , red checked napkins starched and correctly ready , newest advertising signs and defense posters pasted around the mirror-Idle gossip may sink a ship-girls in white bathing suits , mouths smiling in vapid faces, (In the West its Raineir beer) black-out shades rolled up , ready on the door, bottles all shapes and sizes and vintages, small ones on the bottom row , big wine bottles on the top , Nickolodian bulgin g in the corner (Lord! If they play "Elmers Tune" again tonight!). There was one other customer besides the soldier. He was sitting near the corner , in booth 8, with a tamale and coffee order. Second day he'd come in and ordered the same thing. Just sat there chewing reflectively , his red head bent over a book. Too old to be a college student though. Queerest guys always come in the afternoon, Nick thought philosophically . His attention returned to his customer at the counter. He was still staring at the beer, both elbows on the counter, his head on his hands.
"Been in ' Frisco before, soldier?" Nick opened. The soldier looked up, startled, as if he had just discovered where he was.
" Got here about a week ago. "
" Like it out here? "
" I guess it's 0. K. " The soldier resumed his scrutiny of the beer , seemed to notice for the first time what it was, and drank it down. Nick havin g a strong dislike for conversational silences broke this one.
"Like the Army? "
"It's 0. K. too if you like that sort of thin g. I guess I'm not the type."
Nick looked mildly surprised " What's the matter ? Not, enough action , too much ditch digging? You ' ll get in it soon enough. Almost every black-out ni g ht I see ' em slipping through the Gates in the moonli g ht. No brass bands , no crowds -just shadows sailing past old Alcatra z, and out through the Golden Gates. Next mornin g some o f the g irls find their boy friends ain ' t around. More ' ll be coming on the afternoon train though Yeah , you ' ll get in soon enough." ·
The soldier offered no comment. His lar g e , strong hands crumpled his napkin into a small hard ball and then opened and carefully smoothed it on the counter.
Nick, undaunted, continued . " You ' re from the Middle West ? I can tell by the accent . My sisterin-law comes from St. Louis. "
Nick had struck fertile g round. The soldie r looked up. "That's where I went to school , St. Louis-the best city in the best state in the union ! What wouldn ' t I give to be back though! " H e motioned for another beer.
"Yeah, Lorna liked it pretty good too ," called Nick from the end of the counter getting the beer. He came back , wiped off the bottom of the glass , and smacked it down on the counter. " But sh e likes the climate out here better. You worked in St. Louis? "
" Yeah, I worked in St. Louis , past tense - bank teller. "
"Aren ' t they holding the job ' til after the duration?"
The soldier laughed " Oh yes , sure They put the boss ' cousin in ."
"That kinda lets you out ?"
He nodded. "Oh, but they ' re patriotic - bu y bonds and stamps and sit at home doubling thei r [ 6]
salaries while we crawl through the mud on our more than mist; he could still find the dial of the bellies. They can ' t understand what happened at clock on the tower of the Ferry building. The lights Pearl Harbor - it should be investigated thor- were beginning to come out and fringe the bay oughly. Oh yes Parasites! It's the same kind of like the sparkle of a necklace on black velvet. It thing that got us into the last war. The same prop- must be 5: 30. The head lights on the lines of aganda, the same lies! What fools we Americans commuter traffic were winding in and out and are ." He looked at Nick searchingly. "I don ' t over the great bridges, a procession of fireflies in a sound very patriotic, do I? I'm not. That ' s my Disney dream. The sobbing moan of a fog horn trouble. " He finished his second beer and ordered sounded from some departing ship. The soldier another. began to run , stumbling over the cobble stones.
Nick looked worried and slightly alarmed. A month later, Nick lumbered over to one of the " Yes , you are underneath. We all are , but we back tables where the red headed man and a don ' t feel it until something makes us. I didn ' t friend were eating. Nick was carrying a newsuntil my Mary was evacuated from school when paper. " Hey, Mr. Morgan, remember that soldier there was that air-raid scare. You'll feel the same last month? Talked too much and I almost pinned way. " his ears down? Well, take a look at this." He
The soldier leaned across the counter. " No , no spread the paper on the table and pointed with a I won't . You see , Nick , I was taught to hate war. pudgy finger to a picture on the front page. When I was in grammar school I learned to love Mr. Morgan smiled . "Sure , I remember. You the Germans , and Japanese , and Italians. They almost had a good fight on your hands. " Mr. were my little brothers from across the seas. The Morgan turned to his friend. "Birch, this is Nick, war to end wars had been fought. We were civil- formerly the best fight manager in the business, at ized. War was barbarian-war never solved any- present doing a superb job in the spaghetti game." thing - war was wrong. Now, suddenly I have to He took up the paper. "Well I'll be damned. It's change all my inbred ideas and convictions. I the same one, all-right. Been honored with a won't do it." medal too ." He began to read "Private George Nick started to interrupt. The soldier went on , Rowe was honored posthumously yesterday by the his voice rising. " No , you don ' t understand. Of u. s. government for conspicuous bravery above course you couldn ' t You aren't leaving a good job, and beyond the line of duty. Private Rowe voluna new wife to fight for the greed of men who want teered for dispatch duty and under heavy fire, rea lways more power , more money , more lands. peatedly passed through enemy territory delivering Bloody pawns we are , maneuvered like puppets by orders even after retreat had been sounded. He remen who know how to dupe the mob. They got us fused to desert after being wounded seriously. into this , now let them get us out. Why don't they His body was found by the later advancing troops, let the little man alone? We want to live our own surrounded by bodies of the enemy." lives Democracy, hell! Is this democracy? I can't Nick broke the silence. "My God! you never even live , eat or die where I want to." His head can tell. The way the boy talked that afternoon fell back on his hands you ' d have thought he was dyed yellow." He Nick bellowed, "No maybe I wouldn't under- tapped the paper. "Then he goes out and fights stand. All I understand is that you ' re yellow. like this. You know, Mr. Morgan, our boys may act Yell ow as those out there." He pointed West. "All pretty so£t , but when it comes to the real thing they I know is if you blabbed like this in Germany, can beat the guts out of any dirty Heinie or Jap. Italy , Japan you ' d get just what's coming to you. I We've got what it takes!" came from Italy. All I have America gave me. I'd Mr. Morgan looked at the picture again and said fight if I was the last American in the world. nothing. You' re a parasite, spoiled, afraid to fight for what Nick discovered a new customer across the room you have, afraid-" and moved reluctantly off. "Glad to have met you
A quiet voice interrupted. It was the man with Mr. Birch. G ' night Mr. Morgan. " the red hair who had ambled to the counter from Birch said, "You know , Red, it makes you the back, apparently attracted by the noise of the wonder what kind of a passion it is that makes a discussion. "The' re two sides to every question , man go against his inborn instinct for self-preseryou know. Let's have a beer on me." vation and risk his life again and again like that.
An hour later the soldier pushed open the door Is it bravery or just plain foolhardiness?" of Nicks' Tavern and walked out. The fog touched Mr. Morgan tipped back in his chair and lit a his face with cool, sweaty hands It was just a little cigarette , his hand cupped around the match. "It [ 7 J
wasn't bravery this time, Birch," he said. "It was cowardice-the yellowest kind."
Birch looked sharply at his partner, startled by the sudden lowering of his voice.
"You see, Birch." Red continued, "That boy sold himself out a month ago at this very table. He gave me some rather valuable data on boat sailings. I never had an easier mark. He almost volunteered the information."
Birch looked incredulous. "Well, I'll be damned!"
Red continued to puff on his cigarette in silence.
"But I still don't get it," Birch complained. "Why' d he have to put on the heroic act? Was he afraid of being found out?"
"It wasn't an act, Birch It was the real thing." Red leaned forward. "After he went patriotic ,
the only thing he thought could atone for his treason was his life. So he gave it gladly because he hadn't the courage to live with himself." Red laughed. " He was a fool. What good is one life against the thousands he jeopardized? His patriotism came too late."
" Did they sink the ships?"
" No, as a matter of fact the U. S. Navy changed their plans the last minute."
Birch traced a circle in the beer spilled on the table. "Then he died for nothing. "
"No, Birch. It doesn't change the set-up any . That wouldn't have made it any different to him."
"I don't get it."
Red paused and crushed out his cigarette. "No, I guess neither of us would "
As pounding cann o n roar , and smoke enshrouds The bloody , war-torn earth and shell-rent town And ghastly sight of men being battered down , The cruel lords of War laugh long and loud. There blessed Pea ce lies man g led in her shroud : Her pregnant womb is splattered o ' er the g round; And embryonic Happiness is ground Beneath the crushin g feet of strugglin g crowds Almighty God of love and truth and peace , Let fighting , misery , and destruction cease! And haste the day when every heart shall see The sinful folly of denying Thee , And every head shall bow in humble shame Because this foolish race disgraced Thy name.
FRANCIS J. SNOW , '4 2.
(EonoR's NOTE: Discovered in a secretary's minutes.)
THE meeting will come to order. The president exhibiting the better aspects of good posture, watches hopefully for the day when the chaotic bedlam of the Carousing Room will be elevated to bedlam and some semblance of peace will greet her opening thrust. The meeting will come to order, the beloved epitome of a clubwoman's heaven, usually accompanied by "articulate silences." Hastily reassuring herself that the dribbling multitude manages to attain to a quoroum, she nods to the secretary wh<!iseroll call is answered in the manner of the U. S. Senate . . . what better example could one ask for? There are some things to which the only answer is silence. In this utter calm the secretary pours out her heart in her minutes. It is a moot point as to what would happen to her under the strain of eternity. The High Counselor has entered and is chuckling aimiably at what is obviously funny if it's coming from the secretary's minutes.
The highpoint of the afternoon has passed without being too obscure in its transition. Since there are many of us who abhor an anti-climax, there ensues a general waiver of departure as the more athletic of its members heed the call of the out of doors and the need of a coach at the local Y - exit Miss Cox.
Radiating the prescribed enthusiasm, the president outlin es the program for the next six months, interspersed by suggestions from the Chairman of Fellows who is constantly reminding the group of the way the Girl Reserves prohibited the sale of alcohol in the Sunday Schools of Washington in ' 29. Having exhausted her supply of expletives, and not wishing to repeat more than half of them, the program continues in spite of the Girl Reserves who prohibited the sale of liquor in the Sunday Schools of Washington in '29.
The War Relief Ball, which for the past two months had been a source of contention among the
members, is discussed m the following manner:
1st , calmly
2nd, without malice
3rd, with all opinions addressed to the chair, one at a time. The main objection seems to be that it lowers the standard of the organization. But since this WCTU looks t o Eleanor-and Eleanor looks to Landis-and the Draft goes on-there seems to be no question about t h e discussion. One member, however, who has never recovered from her fight for women's Suffrage, finds in this issue a good excuse to raise her battle cry, "The old gray mare, she ain't what she used to be"-and from there on, it's anybody's war. One would never have realized "how unpleasing, musically, is the sound of a pack of upper-class feminine voices in full cry." The Gutenberg of the crowd is averse to the new cu rriculum of social activity and believes with Dorothy Parker and George Jean Nathan - although it probably never occurred to her-that "the lovely rhythms of the wal t z should be listened to in stillness and not be accompanied by strange gyrations of the human body." Another, more modern in her views and endeared to the group for her well-known whispering campaigns in the interest of Prohibition and laryngitis, holds that the very fact that some people come from towns where dancing is not held in good repute is reason enough to lift it to a higher level. The only answer to this is a rustle of approval from the files and a hasty catapult from the antic -weighted publicity chairman . Even the High Counselor nods her approval, and the proceeds are practically in the hands of the Red Cross. The Philosopher, who has left the fog of London jolly well behind her, suggests to "Madam" that perhaps the ladies would like to wear their volunteer service uniforms and th at the fraternal organizations might be persuaded that the Red Cross comes before a Barn Dance like pride before a fall . . . that they must be gentlemen as well as followers
The treasurer manages to arouse hereself from a stu dy-comparab l e to counting angels on a pin
[ 9 ]
point-of what momentous affairs can be settled with a dime to announce the proposed cookie sale must go on. Gutenberg nods vigorously. How else can they be expected to get those invectevated tracts on "Anti-Paul Jones" distributed? The Scotch descendant, MacMurt, turns an uncanny eye on her bagpipes, a visual picture of how the suffering public can give involuntarily.
Having finally regained her wonted position with a measure of composure, the president requests that we put especial emphasis on the C of
WCTU. The secretary was asked to communicate a word of cheer to our fallen sisters in the Penitentary. The erstwhile scrapbook was turned over to the publicity chairman; the faltering knitters , our struggling sisters, to big-hearted proficiency ; and the Carousing Room to a sudden air of abandon-as the meeting was officially
. Respectfully submitted , ANNE OAK E S, Secretary.
I wouldn't mind your dropping me Or quitting all my rushes , If you should find a glamour g a l Or something r eall y luscious.
I wouldn't mind-when being jiltedIf I came to friction With some queen of Hollywood Or one w orth competition .
But migosh ! did you ha ve to pick That mousy little flea? How could you stand that stupid g oo p When you are used to m e?
I wouldn ' t mind your leaving me For something just worthwhile. But to pick my worst darn enemy! That really cramps my style .
FELICITY APPERLY , '4 5
By GUY FRIDDELL, '43
Tto his fartherest field by the mill road to do a little plowing since it had been forbidden him. He was considering quitting when Bose drove up in his car, and pulled up in a rasping stop. Then he observed moodily, "Lookit that decrepit ole fool
HIS is a glimp?e at the crossroads. There, tryin' to plow out there. Don't he know the sun'll a bug struggling in the ruts of the mud bake his ole mud head, and he'll be laid up all road before Stacey's store inspires more com- summer. Es fer his plowing, that scarecrow could ment among the sad-eyed loungers than do all the do a better job." The car rattled off, and Rance, battles of Europe. swearing wrathfully, turned, and plowed the
No wonder then that the Miles brothers' feud whole field. A week later on Sunday he tottered is still talked about, although the participants were from his sick bed, and put on his clothes with the but two cantankerous old men, and their duels air of a man buckling on duelling pistols. "I 'low never progressed beyond fiery challenges. But, I'll finish that Bose and his talk once n' fer all," neither does the bug safely cross the mud road. he ominously told his wife as they entered his Duels, bugs, and life at the crossroads seldom do brother's yard. The women rose, holding in their go farther. skirts the butter-beans they had been shelling.
Rance Miles, the younger brother, was short, and Rance stopped them with an imperious wave of scrawny. He had bright blue eyes, and a white his hand and moustache. 'Tm not riled by Bose moustache as expressive as most men's mouths. Miles' vain boastin's," he declared. "I may be old His brother Bose was tall and raw-boned with the but I can out-plow any Miles over sixty-five years sterness of a cigar-store Indian. The field sun had old , and give him ten furrows head start at that!" browned his skin, and time had plowed deep lines Bose started up. "Rance Miles, you've opened in his broad face. Bose smoked a corn-cob pipe, your big mouth one time too many, as the Good and Rance chewed tobacco. Rance as a young man Book says. I'll give you twenty furrows start. had run away for a year's time, and although he Whoever wins this, wins all the arguments you had been returned almost half a century, Bose still ever started. Boys!" addressing the relatives who regarded him by turns as an ungrateful prodigal had left their penny pitching under the oaks, "go son, a city slicker, or a wild young 65-year-old hitch up Hattie and Dan to separate plows. I'm colt liable any day to kick over the traces again. fixin' to plow your poor Uncle Rance under." Their fierce arguments could be laid to tempera- "Wait jest a minute, Bose Miles. You don't ments, and habit of years. Regularly on Sunday, think I'm gonna plow your field, do you?" Rance, his wife Ida, and two pet fox-terriers would "Of course I do! Ain't they my team?" come marching into his brother's yard. Bose, Rance spat. "All the more reasons why it oughtwhittling, would be waiting on the front porch. ta be my field. Whose idea was it anyway? You' re On sighting Rance, he would unlimber his heavy the stingiest and most grasping man that ever guns: "Look at 'im ! I told 'em so. Depend on chewed, you low-down stinking pole-cat." Rance to come vis'ting relations 'bout meal time. "Hold on there a minute, Rance Miles. If I had Too old to get his own vittles." your stripes, I'd be careful who I called a poleRance would rear up, and come charging across cat, you runt-son of a knothole!" the porch like a Marshall Ney to meet the attack The women hastened into the house, the boys with machine-gun profanity. Men and boys gath- went back under the oaks to pitch pennies, and ered around to listen, but the women quickly re- night found the two warriors still duellingtired to the kitchen, where Ida would remark. wordily. "Thunderin', Nora. Oughtta shut the window less No one wins a war. The bug never crosses the the butter-milk spile." The first violent eruption road and life for Rance came to an end in the ended, the women would come back to the porch, early Spring of '39 after he had swum across the where the two volcanoes would rumble and spurt wash hole on a dare. So he iost his last argument only occasionally. to pneumonia. Bose half-heartedly attempted to After dinner, Rance would push back his chair. open hostilities with the church deacons, but they "Well, I reckon a body can tell when he ain't would only turn the other cheek. He lost interest wanted. I've had just about enough of your vain in life and came down sick during ' the severe hollerin', Bose Miles, and you may be sure the winter. In the midst of bawling relatives who had good Lord has too!" Then he would stomp from egged him on to confess his sins he vowed he the room, whistling for his wife and dogs. hoped he would go straight to hell where Rance The thirty years war almost ended in '38. Rance was this second. "I can take on both of 'em," he had escaped his wife's vigilance and slipped off said grimly, and died.
[ 11 ]
By NANCY MASTERS, '44
While Beauty died, I watched beside the bed, And tried to let her go without a tear, With peaceful heart and eyes that, speaking, said: Dying is easy-what the living fear Is only the finality of truth, From which the most adroit cannot escapeT he light seen waning, and the loss of youth, Sorrow more eloquent than blackest crepe Or brightest tears-for it shall end, shall end, Which was so lovely and beyond the touch, Refusing at the last to stay, or send Part of its heaven back-oh, ever such 1Vas Beauty-errant, proud of head cmd high, Born to break hearts, to perish. and pass by.
Add to this loveliness the poignancy
Of parting, and the radiance of tears; All that I hoped that you would mean to me
You brought to life, and more; no grief, no fears
For beauty ended, so without a flaw, Can mar this last-and yet the stubborn mind
Admits no end-oh, tell me where to draw
Strength for my failing heart, that I may find
Some solace in my pain-you said, I know, Life grows and changes, watchful Time renews His power from ages past,-well, it is so,
But even knowing this, I weep to lose
The days that were a song of gleaming dawn; I loved you more than life, and you are 'gone.
[ 12]
It breaks my heart to go walking Down by the lake; T haf s the path that you and I Were wont to take. And in my heart the thunder Of other dancing days, I weep, and then I wonder At heaven's heart! ess ways; I weep, and then I wonder That everything is still, When half I hope to hear again Your voice-its quiet thrill. And yet I know your laughter, the beauty of your eyes, Are as far away, forgetting, as though in Paradise.
You asked me why the evening star Has always meant repose to mePerhaps because it shines so far In pinnacled simplicity.
From all that dazzles, all that moves Its moody brillance past the sight, The heart returns to little loves: A path at dawn, a bird in flight.
Or, knowing music will be found In flowers bending under rain, It nestles in the loving ground To grow as clover once again.
[ 13]
I never thought that there would be Another song to sing; When you walked by, it seemed to me The frozen death of spring. When you went on, and all the light I knew and loved in you, Died out in darkness, such a height I dreamed not to renew.
But here are stars to burn the sky With silver fire again; Although one beauty had to die, The full clear moon to wane, There is another love today, There is a fairer moonI breathe once more the bloom of May A second spring has strewn.
By LUCY McDONOUGH, '42
SOMETIMES when I hear people yapping, I get so mad I can't see hardly because they don't know what they're talking about anyway. They can't tell when they've got something. I didn't use to think so, I'll admit, but since I had my accident I've gotten straight on lots of things.
I used to be a jockey, a damned good one too . I never lost a race, and my picture used to be in the papers all the time. I never threw a race neither. It was one thing I wouldn't do and that was run a crooked race. I had sense enough to know that kind don't stay at the top but so long. You just can't beat the game, and the race-horse business is one game that sure ought to get the best.
It was a swell life. I get a choky feeling every time I think of it. You got all dressed up in your colors and went and stood out in front of the stands full of people and then you got your horse and showed him off to the crowd. But when you raced all you could hear was the wind whistlin g past your ears and your horse ' s hoofs , and you couldn't hardly tell there was anybody around You could feel your horse straining and you had to keep him steady, and you t a lked to him just like a person God , it was a great game!
But to get back to what I was going to tell you, I was a jockey and I was on top. I had me a girl too She was a pretty little thing, not even quite as tall as I was. About five feet, I guess I'm just five feet two. I was crazy about her and I guess she liked me all right too. We used to go to the night clubs and the newspapers would take pictures of us dancing and talking and folks would smile at us. She loved it , and we were going to g et married. Everything was going fine. Everybody was my pal - except the crooked gang and they steered clear.
At least they did until the big race in thirtythree. I was riding Gigol o, a honey of a three year old , and he was the fastest horse in the country It was a cinch for him to win and we had the bunch plenty worried. Anyway, they got after me to throw the race and I said I wouldn't do it. So in the race they shoved us into the fence and-well -I hurt my spine
I guess I took it pretty hard. When the doc said I wouldn't ever ride again I swore at him and said he was lying. I said they were just scared I'd lick the bunch again like I did before an<l they framed
me . I was pretty sore because they were on top again and I knew what a bunch like that could do to racing. Craps amighty ! And there I was on my back and them telling me I wouldn ' t even ever walk again!
Anyway , I got lots of flowers and stuff like fru it and things , and some of the fellows that had been swell to me even came to see me. But I didn't he ar anything at all from my girl until finally, she answered my letter and said she couldn't marry a cripple I took it pretty hard at first, but after I thought about it , I sort of didn't care mu ch any more. She started up with the other jockeys an d I guess she was happy because they was on to p and she still got her pictures in the papers
But as I started to tell you , there I was and I wasn't going to ever walk any more Then mo st all my money was gone because I had to pay fo r the hospital bills and all and I guess I had live d pretty high anyway. Since I was a little kid I' d always worked around horses, and a guy that can ' t walk just don't count in the race-horse business. I didn ' t know what I was going to do. I knew the re wasn ' t no use to hunt for the guys I had loane d money to because guys like that just don ' t kno w you when you ' re down. After a while I didn ' t get any more flowers or letters and I figured folks h ad just forgot about me now I wasn ' t buyin g th e drinks any more or givin g ' em tips. It was a pret ty hard jolt and I was awful low . Just laying the re on my back and thinking all the time.
But there was still some of the fellows comin g to see me and bringing me picture puz zles an d things , and sometimes we shot craps there on th e bed There was Joe Bates, he was a jockey too an d a swell guy , and Burt a nd Dave Williams. An d then there was some big guys that I had rode fo r - Mr. Winters , he was the man that owne d Gigo lo , and Mr. Satterwhite, and Mr. Marti n. They'd just come every once in a while to see ho w I was getting on. It sure made me feel good. Gu ys like that are real friends.
But my money was getting low but I didn ' t say nothing to any of them and I told the hospital I had to get out of there and get a job. I didn't kno w what I was going to do , but Cheese, a fellow ' s got to eat!
After I thought it all over , I decided to set m e up a newspaper stand with the money I had le ft and all the fellows said they thought it was a goo d [ 14]
idea. And Mr. Winters and Mr. Martin and Mr. Satterwhite said they thought so too and they asked me if they couldn't loan it to me. But they knew I never took money off of anyone, and so they didn't mind when I thanked them and said no. So they said they'd get all their friends to buy their papers from me. But I did tell them they could do something for me if they wanted to and that was find me a nice place for it, and so they did. I had to laugh because they, all of them, had such a good time doing it. They went all over the whole city and finally got me this place on the corner of Main Street and Madison Avenue. It's a swell place.
So on the day I was getting ready to leave the hospital, I was feeling pretty good. But I was getting kind of hurt because I hadn't heard from none of them that day. I was telling myself they was busy and maybe the stock market had gone down and that was why Mr. Martin and Mr. Satterwhite wasn ' t there or maybe Gigolo had hurt his foot again and Mr. Winters couldn't come, but I missed them plenty. You know how you feel. So finally when it was time to leave and they still wasn't there I felt bad. But when the nurse pushed me over to the door and opened it there was the whole bunch of them standing there grinning at me. They had a shiny wheel-chair with them , all done up in ribbons and they had a shoe off Gal ahad hanging on the back of it covered with Rowers. You remember Galahad. Greatest
horse ever lived. It was the fanciest wheel chair you ever seen with white tires and everything. And they was all putting in and giving it to me for a present. Cheese, it was a funny feeling. Sort of happy and sad at the same time. I ain't had that feeling since I was a kid. I wish you could of seen 'em standin' there watchin' how I'd like it. They was tickled as a bunch of kids.
So I said how pretty it was and the nurses got me in it and we all went over to see my newsstand.
There was a whole gang of the fellows there and I was plenty glad to see them. They had the stand all fixed up with "welcome back" signs and more flowers and ribbons and they sang "For he's a jolly good fellow," and folks turned around and smiled because everybody was having such a swell time.
They gave me a swell send off, and that night, when I was sitting there in my stand watching the snow fall so so£t and people coming and going and stopping to buy papers, I don't know when I've felt so good. Except maybe tonight.
It's just the same as it was then. Folks still coming and going and even when they don't stop to buy papers they some of them nod and smile to me. Friendly like. Craps! I bet the whole world's happy. At least it would be if folks stopped to think about it. You can tell me I'm wrong, but when you get right down to it, the world's all right. It's just some of the people in it.
( C o ntinu ed fr o m p c1ge 2)
for a music browsing room. We have the equipment. Through the combined efforts of these students and the ever-willing cooperation of the music department, some plan may be evolved by which we may have the desired sanctuary. We need only to open the door which has been waiting so long for the knock of true music lovers. It is now that we come, for it is now that we turn to beauty. It is now that we need the quiet inner strength. It is now that we need the things for which Sandy Nininger died. [ 15 ]
THIS is the story of seven little girls, and the seven little girls went to school. Only they got dreadfully insulted when anyone said " school" because they were in College, and that was a big step above the required years of reading, writing , and arithmetic. "College women" sounded much more mature and more suited for ThoseWho-Get-Around. Therefore, among themselves , they were college women, but to us they were just seven little girls.
The scholastic year went rolling along like Old Man River, and then one bright, shiny morning spring came. Naturally when this happened, Romance, which hadn't been exactly an unknown animal all year, began to rumba around energetically in the most amazing manner. Before very long , the seven little girls began to get in the same groove. Boy, was it fun!
Now, as it happened , on the very first night o f spring the first little girl came in from a date with the strangest smile on her face. It wasn't until much later that the other six discovered that she had a fraternity pin. The pin was from a boy she ' d known for years and years and she was actually in lov e with him! However , the six decided that she had always been a little "tetched " in the head. What they didn ' t know was that he had a heart of gold and that she had decided it was best to give it to Sam, Jr., what with the country off the gold standard. (He was one of Uncle Sam's chosen children and the owner of the pin.)
Then the second little girl got a pin. She was a smart little thing she was, and Ted was the Catch of the campus. He had Everything from the best fraternity to a super-smooth cream convertible She came in from The date with that I-can't-believe-it-how-did-I-do-it look and no lipstick. Funny thing about lipstick. Oh yes, she loved him good, and he wasn't graduating for two years yet.
The third little girl wanted to get married. It was such a nice idea, and she had always loved weddings. Besides, the idea of having to work in that far-distant world After College was too gruesome even to be tolerated. So she got a pin too. The boy was one of those let's-settle-down-in-ahurry fellows, but that was fine. He was a manwasn ' t he? She walked around in a rosy haze talking to anyone who would listen and to herself when no one would, about weddings, marriage, and all that stuff that people used to whisper about behind closed doors. She didn't bother with classes
anymore; they were too unimportant now.
The fourth little girl had been going with on e special boy for a long, long time; or so it seemed . Whenever a person happened to think of one, th e other was automatically thought of . He hun g around like Old Dog Tray, and she tolerated hi m very nicely Maybe it wasn't love, but spring an d quaint philosophical ideas about making the mo st of what you have finally got her down. The fourt h little girl appeared with a fraternity pin She reasoned that it added a little color to her sweater s, and there weren ' t any unattached Don Juans running loose-at least, not this year. Besides , it didn 't mean anything
Among our charming little group there was on e who had a terrible fault. Yes, the fifth little gi rl was the one. She couldn't help it ( it must hav e been the Jap in her) , but she was a dyed-in-th ewool gambler. One day , some nasty soul besmirched this girl's technique to the extent of saying she could not hook a certain lone wolf on th e campus Three guesses what happened You ' r e right! You win a box of stale candy! The fift h little girl not only tamed the wolf but snatche d his teeth-no, pardon , his pin for good measur e She wears it like a case wears a lone trophy , an d everybody ' s happy ( except of course , the afor ementioned nasty soul who probably wanted th e wolf herself) . That left only two of our little girls withou t some front line hardware and that was too muc h for the sixth of the group. Not that she couldn 't have all the pins she wanted! There were any number at her disposal because she was a Queen It was just that delicate little problem of which to choose, although she'd have preferred to continu e playing the field. All the others looked too smug though; thus it became quite evident that Something New had to be added. A coin was flippe d Or maybe it was several coins . Anyway, blushin g coyly, she joined Those-Who-Are-In-Love and le ft the last little girl all by herself.
This was indeed sad. The last little girl was a Scholar, and it was even rumored that she was a "drip" ( or a "sad apple," a "meatball," a " lemon " or what have you). Finally, one day inspiratio n struck. She was so excited she nearly broke he r eyeglasses. Tenderly going to her sewing box , she removed a large safety pin and fastened it securely in exactly The spot on her sweater. Everything w a s perfect now, and all of the seven little girls ha d prns.
[ 16]
By BEN ROUZIE, '44
Yeh-lights-I see all kind-they shine at me all the time in this dern truck
cab-the fools they keep their lights up high at trucks-but I'm up higher here-
and they don't faze me much-only sometimes-(hey get those blinkers down
you)-like that one-see-you don't find guys drive trucks do that-you get
some fell a takin' his girl around-and he's all lights-he never throws 'em down
-damn-they don't care about nobody else or no thin' -but I can see that too-
I guess you can-there goes an old one-lights sniffin' along the ground like an
old hound dog-them kind is bad-godawful when you' re pushin' from behind
+ 'em-here-strike this match and hold it up for me-I gotta shift on this dern
grade that's comin' up-smokin' too much-half-way through my second pack
+ -that's too dern much-but what's a guy to do--ain't often I can talk to some + + nice guy-like you-most of the guys is mice-but I could see that you was one :j: of those that goes to college-you keep it up-don't never get mixed up in driv-
in' ttruck~~yhoutmigdhtbasfwelltghet?1ixedtup in a me'sts-tt1p int a fmtess-kof asphalt :·.t + -s eamm o roa s e ore ey re pu -you can ge ou o rue s no more ... 4 than jail-like jail for murder-yeh you kill a guy-you kill a guy in this and ·!·
+ you serve your time for it too-but you don't kill nobody else-you kill yourself :j: and serve your time in <loin' it- now I ain't gripin'-don't get that idea-trucks :t
been good to me-to me since God knows when-I've eat off trucks-me and my
i kids and wife-but me I work by loads-money for loads-it's me that kills
myself-you ain't asleep-nab-that you ain't-you know-I never talk-talk
to myself-now don't you go to sleep on me-because I'll go to sleep if I stop :j:
talkin'-by loads-now take tonight-well mornin'--but the sun ain't up-I got :~
a load of spuds all bound for Akron-I got a wife in Akron-two kids-kids
both in high school-both young ladies-thank God for that-they'll never ride +
a truck cab-well like I said-I got some spuds-this can is overweight-they'll J + get me sure here in Kentucky-these cops are-well you know-and I can see
that too-well these potaters are for the guys who make these heavy shoes we' re :~
rollin' on-funny-that steady run-rubber-spuds-all simple turnover- :~
d k looks like to me-looks like-like we could get together-ahhh-I on't now
.
-I o-uessyou study all about that stuff-but sometimes when the sun ain't in my + :j: eyes I get to thinkin'-but it's too big-maybe-and anyway my pay don't come :t :t for thinkin'-I never went to hi gh school-guess you know-just to hear me :t talk-spoutin' my brains right through the steerin' wheel-(,get down those .j. lights you )-there goes one-good God-that gets my eyes-that an' the sun
-you know I told you-bud-that I was fixed to kill myself at this-this :t pushin' nio-ht and day in these high cabs-these cabs ain't high enough some- .:. h i times-I know the score-I got a big insurance policy-bud-some ni 0 ht them •i- h lio-hts is goin' to hit me hard-they hit I tell ya-and I ain't goin' to come-( get ·=· h :j: down those blinkers-£ ell a in that buick )-come out a curve with this big trailer ~t -and overweio-ht don't help-I know the score-my boss don't know_:__andhe :t :t. ain't goin' to-I'm goin' blind!
[ 17}
Dragon Seed. By Pea~l Buck. New York: John Day & Company, 1941. 375 pp. $2.50.
Reviewed by Louise Wiley, '43
but certainly they are typical of China's timeles s poor. At first they thought that this war would b e like any other, but they learned differently. Lin g Tan tells his youngest son, "A man if he is hon -
Too much of Chinese news has been put on orable ought to be sickened and angry." Statistic s the back pages, but now in this country we are about the Japanese invasion of Nanking and th e beginning to understand that while the British Yangtze Valley are too impersonal. When we rea d have been holding our front lines across the At- of the thousands of homes that were destroyedlantic the Chinese have been holding our lines the men burned and tortured-the women rape d across the Pacific. Dragon Seed will help us to ap- --we cannot feel it, but it comes alive before u s preciate our other allies. in Pearl Buck's story. When the soldiers came a ll
Time says that "Pearl Buck's new novel is the were able to hide but an old grandmother and th e strongest and most instructive story yet written of soldiers after killing her fell on her as if she ha d China at war. As discreet and powerful propa- been young and beautiful. Of all the women in ganda it makes tangible the living, the suffering the village only those who were lucky had escape d. and the bravery of a great and obscure people Ling Tan therefore sent all of his women int o under four years of hermetic tyranny, in a defeat Nanking where they took refuge with a foreig n which refused to stay put." Even those who missionary. Ling Ta11 "felt more sorry for the rich would not ordinarily read a novel about Chinese than the poor because the rich were so helple ss life should read this one. Singapore has fallen and delicate and knew little of where to stay. " " It and suddenly the East has become important to seemed to him that the greatest thing a man coul d our country. do in these days was to live and keep alive h is
All of us know now that we cannot ignore any own. " After all the women were sent away Ling longer Japan's expansion in the East. We must Tan and his sons stayed at home, but everywher e understand clearly our stakes in the Pacific and also they heard of the terrible things that had ha pthe nature of our conflict. Too few of us have pened. Orchid , one son's wife, after a few week s personal friends in the war areas or have lost became bored of the place of refuge and so she personal property It would be a tragedy if only slipped out into the streets. As she was passing a actual bombing could make us realize that we public place five Japanese soldiers seized her. She have our backs to the wall, and we could so easily was guite beautiful and they fought over who w as loose all that we value. to have her first. Orchid thrived on happiness bu t
We in America feel that we are suffering be- in a time of trouble she had no strength and so she ca~se sugar is being rationed and cokes are now died and the last man had to use her dead. Passe rs ten cents instead of five cents. We still grumble by were afraid to come in and save her. Later on about the tire and rubber situation. We are making when the Jap soldiers had gone on a few finall y a great show of signing up for defense courses came in and covered her up and sent her back to and preparing for black outs. Yet we will all feel the foreign woman in a rickshaw. They could n ot ashamed after reading about Ling Tan's family- tell her husband what had happened but the whit e among the first victims of this war. Ironically woman told the mother in law, "I have seen so enough American doctors picked American scrap- much sorrow that nothing will be the same again ." nel out of many of these friends of ours.
After this Ling Tan and his sons stayed at hom e, Ling Tan and his wife Ling Sao, sons , daughters looking after things and they were afraid to brin g and the wives and children of his sons live in a their women back. Some soldiers came asking fo r small village outside of Nanking, the former cap- women-knocking down the food that Ling Ta n ital of China. Perhaps they are portrayed too nobly and his sons held out to them. "When those fur i-
[ 18]
ous soldiers saw that indeed their were no women their lust knew no bounds. It burst from them like wicked flames and now he (Ling Tan) saw them lay hold on his youngest son, that lad who had always been too beautiful for his own good, and now his beauty was his ruin for they took the boy and used him like a woman." Ling Tan and his sons could do nothing to save him. "The lad was not dead, nor even wounded to death, but he was like one dead, as though his heart had been stabbed and his father was afraid he was out of his wits." Finally the boy said, "I wish I were dead. I cannot stay here. I cannot rest." Not even listening to his father he went on, "I must go." He straightened himself and went toward the door and now it was dark except for the faint light of the moon and the fainter stars. The night was still and cold, and he went out into it and with no backward look he struck toward the hills. Ling Tan and his eldest son stood watching him as long as eye could see. "Is there anything worse that can happen to us?" Ling Tan whispered. His son did not answer and above them the night sky was as beautiful as it had ever been in time of peace. "That sky," Ling Tan said suddenly, "will nothing ever change it?"
Finally the old mother alone comes back and when she sees that there is nothing le£t in her house she cries bitterly and cannot be comforted. " Now I have nothing." She did not know it, but she wept for more than this. She wept because she was weary and because her children were dead and scattered and because somehow she knew that the whole world in which they must live would never be the same, as the old world she had lived in and
loved." Her husband tried to comfort her. But she only said, "What do I care for that bed or for the tables or the chairs or the stools or anything any more?" Then he knew that she was wounded to her depths at last and that she could be no more wounded than she was.
The family go on living there and the novel describes four years more of the war. They learned to ally themselves with the guerrillas. Ling Tan's eldest son set traps and killed his victims with a knife. The second however smuggled fire arms and killed only when he had to. The youngest killed for pure joy and found joy in nothing else. Ling Tan himself learned to kill without feeling. Ling Tan was worried and he said, "This secret anger and this constant search for ways to kill could not but change men's hearts. Is this not the end of our people when we become like other warlike people in the world?" "And yet in these days one must remember that peace is good. The young cannot remember, and it is we who must remember and teach them again that peace is man's great food."
This is not a great novel, for the story does not build to a climax and in the end it peters out. Pearl Buck writes in her typical style-almost epic -a combination of the Bible, Tolstoy and many others. Sometimes it is good and sometimes it fails.
Critics say that her book is an artistic failure but it is a story for our times. It does not matter how it is told for this is one of the great tragedies of all times-unforgettable to those who have lived through it and even to those who will only read about it.
Lord, if love can make my heart thus ache Then turn this love that burns inside to hate. If love gives pain like this when I'm awake, Then let me love in dreams and I can wait. If love can bring my eyes no more than tears, Then I shall dry my eyes and change my heart, I cannot bear to weep through countless years, And tears are all I have when we' re apart.
If sorrow is the thing for one like me, Then I shall toss this sorrow to a cloud. For such will break a heart eventually, And pride will not permit to cry aloud.
So let me weep for one more day and thenGive me hate to ease my heart again.
HARRIETT LEWIS, '42>.
March 6th: Senior Recital-Dagmar Jacobsen, in the Westhampton Activities Building at 8:15 P.M.
March 7th: The Ballet Russe at the Mosque.
March 13th and 14th: The University Players present "You Can't Take It With You" at the Playhouse at 8: 15 P.M.
March 16th: Philade lphia Orchestra at the Mosque.
March 20th: Honors Convocation at 12:30 P.M.
March 21st: Cleveland Orchestra at the Mosque in the afternoon.
March 27th: Evening of Ensemble Music in the Westhampton Activities Building at 8:15 P.M.
March 3rd -April: Third Biennial Exhibit of American Artists at the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts.
Louise Wiley's generous contributions reflect the writer herself and the Orient which was for so long her home. . . . "Compensation" speaks for today. The author, freshman Elaine Barrett, comes from California .. . . Guy Friddell has long been on our list of prospective contributors. He finally took leave of absence from the Collegian to sketch for us The "Y'' Cabinet meetings have unusually good attendance since no member wants to miss Ann Oakes' minutes. She lets us in on her secret by giving us a look into the secretary's rec-
ords .. . . In Billy Snow's poem cries a prayer no t only for our times but all times. . . . Ben Rouzi e, a frequent contributor, no longer needs an intr oduction Nor does Lucy McDonough, winne r of past contests, and Westhampton editor of th e Web Nancy Masters creates a story in vers e She promises us more. The lines from th e pen of Freshman Felicity Apperly will not be the last to appear in the MESSENGER. Recently elected to the writers' Club, Harriet Lew is shows that she deserves t he honor.
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... Whether you're in there bowling yourself-or watching - nothing hits the spot like a cool, flavorful Camel
TALK ABOUT your wood-gettin' wonder! You're looking right at him"Low" Jackson of St. Louis, 1941 AllAmerican, captain of the world's match game champions, and possessor of one of the highest-scoring hooks in bowling today. Light up a slower-burning Camel and watch this champion in action.
THERE'S A SWIFT FLASH of the arm. The snap of a wrist. The ball whirls down the alley. Take a good lone look at the way "Low" Jackson tossed that one-that's an All-American hook. Close to the gutter~ Three-quarters down, she starts to break-straight for the slot. Watch it now-it's-
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C-R-A-S-H! A perfect hit! The very sound of 'em falling sets you tingling all over. Like a homer with the bases loaded a hole in one like the full, rich flavor of a certain cigarette, it never fails to thrill. No matter how much you smoke, there's always a fresh, welcome taste to a Camel - for Camels are milder with less nicotine in the smoke.
The smoke of slower-burning Camels contains 28%LESS NICOTINE than the average of the 4 other largest-selling brands testedless than any of them-according to independent scientific tests of the smoke itself!
THE SCORE-BOARD tells the story. More smokers prefer Camels ... smokers like Lowell Jackson to whom mildness is so important smokers who want a flavor that doesn't tire the taste smokers who want more out of a cigarette than something to carry in hand or pocket. You'll never know what you've been missing until you smoke Camels.
TWENTY TIMES "Low" Jackson (above) has rolled the perfect score (300). Every time he lights up a Camel he smokes with the assurance of modern laboratory science that in the smoke of milder, slower-burning Camels there is less nicotine ( see below, left ) Get a package of slower- burning Camels today, and smoke out the facts for yourself.