Bright yellows, vivid reds, deep greens have blended in a mass of festive color on the trees around the lake. The trees stand tall, their branches gently swaying back and forth, pointing every now and then across the lake, rustling in the pride of what they see. Looming even taller than the trees, a buildin g stands, its tower stretching far into the sky. The trees have waited, watching as steel beams were lifted into place, bricks laid on top of bricks, the building roofed, now gleaming in the sun.
The trees were waiting-even before the breaking of the ground where the building now stands. Some of them had been there when the University moved to that place, when the first building was constructed. They had heard men talk of a library, the building that was to be--and they had waited. Now in their rustling, their gentle swaying, they seem caught up in the excitement of what that building means.
The trees did not know all that had gone before, but the men who planned the building knew. Almost a hundred years ago, in 1865, the University had lost its first library when a Union officer carried off the books "for preservation." There were only about 1200 books then, and very few of them were ever returned--the Union officer had them in "safekeeping"! After the war there was a new beginning-the University was reconverted from a hospital into a school, and soon the library began to grow. In fact, it outgrew every room and building that ever housed it-there were always more books than there were shelves to put them on. The men who planned the new library knew the story of the past; they knew that the library would grow even more in the years ahead. And so they began to plan and dream.
The seasons have changed many times since then, the years have passed. At last, one hundred twenty-five years after the founding of the University, the dream has come true. The Boatwright Memorial Library stands as a tribute to one
man, especially, and to other men who dreamed of it, and to the future which they all envisioned.
All during September the trees around the lake watched as books were moved in to the new library-95,000 of them they heard. They had never seen so many books. They watched as people went inside the building, but they could not see what the people saw. For what the people saw, stretching out before them in two long joining sections of a mammoth L, was the equipment of a modern library, all of it gleaming in its newness.
Some of the people came to the new library to study, some to read, some because they were curious. Most of them stayed for awhile, wandering around by themselves or in groups, looking at the racks of magazines, flipping through an index or two, glancing among the drawers of the card catalogue, surprised to find so many of them, some half-empty, some not used at all. Some of the people walked through the open stacks, looking for a book, or perhaps only trying to see all that was there.
Light streamed through the windows of the library, adding brightness to the flourescent -lighted rooms. Rows of tables and matching chairs provided seating space for two two hundred seventy people at one time. Everything was in sharp contrast to the library of the past, such as the one at Harvard in 1764, when the best that was offered for the "accommodation of Gentlemen desirous to peruse Books in the Library" consisted of a "small table and seat in each alcove; also a pair of steps."
Everything is open in the new Boatwright Memorial Library, open and accessible to the students who will use it. Instead of an inner sanctum where no one may enter, the student may find in the library an open sesame to a wealth of information and pleasure.
The new library is planned with an eye toward the future, for the dream does not end with the present. The library will grow as the University grows-more books can be added (there is space for 150,000 volumes where there are only 95,000 now) , a new wing can be built, the collections in all fields can be strengthened. And the dream goes on.
The people who come to the library to study, to read, to look, leave the building; and as they go some of them look back, proud of what they see. Around the building and across the lake the trees are still swaying gently, rustling in the breeze. .And all is quiet. Suddenly, from the tower of the library the carillonic bells announce the hour. A new hour, a new day, a new era begins for the University in this building. The trees, standing straight and tall, have watched and waited for this time. The carillonic bells announce it.
Rosalind Allen, '57
Busy Sign
I'm busy.
Don't come in;
You'd only bother me.
Quietness is always kind
To those in studious frame of mind. I like to talk well as the next; But when I'm lost in some dull text, It's hard to read and listen, too. And do you think I'd trouble you With senselessbabbling in your ears
Of my small hopes and foolish fears
While you have other work to do?
You're right; I wouldn't. Then why should you
Intrude upon my concentration
With your idle conversation?
I'm busy.
Don't come in;
You'd only bother me.
-Pat Harper, '57
the glassbubble
It all started the day my mother got John's letter. John is my big brother, away at college. My mother says it's a blessing and a wonder that he ever got to go-I can still remember how mad my father was that whole summer before he went. It was awful when John came home with his new suit. I didn't like the suit so much-it was real dark, almost black-but John looked tall and important in it. I guess my father didn't like it much either-his lip got all curly like it does when he talks about those Republicans in Washington He just stood there and looked at John like he could see what was inside him, and then he called him Joe College-I don't know why, because Joseph is John's middle name, and we never call him that.
Well, anyway, I was getting the mail, like I said, and I took it to my mother. I was happy, because she was always glad to get John's letters, and besides I liked to watch her read them and wait for her to say it was a blessing and a wonder that he was in college. She always said it, and always the same way. So I watched for her to finish, only this time she just got real white and sat still-like she was dead, almost -for such a long time that I got scared. I asked her three times what John had said to make her act so funny, and finally she told me. My big brother John was coming home next week for Thanksgiving vacation and he was bringing a girl for all of us to meet. I thought that was really nice, and I felt all funny inside like I knew a big secret. And then I was really surprised because my mother started to cry, so sudden it made me jump.
I couldn't see why she was crying-it wasn't like John was married or anything and anyway, the girl couldn't be so bad or my big brother wouldn't like her. I explained all this very carefully to my mother, and then she said the funniest thing. Something about she wasn't worried about us liking the girl, but about the girl liking us. Which I thought was pretty dumb, because why would she come and see us if she didn't like us? And besides, John would make her like us.
As usual, my mother hugged me and said I was too young to understand. She jumped up then and began to walk around the house, looking at everything, talking to herself about the curtain in the bathroom and the rug on the floor of my room. My room is always the one company sleeps in-I like this because I can stay in John's room, in his sleeping bag he had when he was a Boy Scout. It still smells like outdoors, and when I get lonely I get in the sleeping bag even if we don't have company and the smell reminds me of John.
Well, when my father came home that night, my mother told him about the girl before he got settled with his paper. I don't think she should have done that, because my father is very hard to talk to when he first gets home. It's because he has people yelling at him all day at the factory, and he needs peace and quiet. At least that's what he told me one day when I had the television on too loud.
Anyway, my father just looked tired for a minute, and then his lip got curly kind of on top of the tiredness. i "So what?" he asked my mother, "So what? We gotta have a big scene because of some girl who should be at home helping her mother instead of laying traps for every man in sight?" My father always says things like "we gotta" and "don't never"-my mother usually doesn't pay any attention, but tonight she corrected him. He really got mad then and asked her if she wanted him to stay somewhere else while The Professor's girl friend was here. That's what my father calls John, even though John says he won't be a professor for at least three years.
My mother looked like she was going to cry again, so I said real quick, "I'm hungry," and my mother ran, almost, to the kitchen to get dinner ready. I usually like to help because my mother laughs and we have fun, but tonight I didn't feel like doing it. Instead I went to John's room, to make sure the sleeping bag was still there.
Well, we got through the week somehow and by the time they came my mother had washed everything in the house, some things twice. Clean-and-nice-for-John's-friend was all I could think about. And things were clean and nice-we fixed the rug in my room by dyeing it bright pink with Tintex. We had some dye left over, so we put the old yellow curtains in too. Some of the yellow showed through, but you couldn't
tell much, and when the sun came up in the morning the room looked just beautiful with the pink light in the windows. I wished the girl could see the pink room first, but my mother says they won't be here until suppertime because they have to drive all day. The girl has her own car-it must be just wonderful to have a car and be able to go anyplace you want. That's when I decided to go to college myself someday and have my mother think it's a blessing and a wonder for me too.
I could hardly stand to wait, but finally the car-a black shiny one, not like ours-was in front of the house and John and the girl were walking up the steps. I almost laughed out loud because she was so pretty-she had on a blue dress and big gold earrings and hardly any hair at all. They were in the house then, and John was introducing her to us. My father hadn't come in yet, and John looked really happy when I told him, not the first kind of happy when his face was red as a beet. The girl's name was Doris and I almost laughed again because it was so perfect.
I knew what my mother would say, because we planned it all before they came. "Joan, show Doris to her room"-she said it and I led the way. I wanted her to say something nice about the pink room, but I guess she didn't notice with the excitement and all. I was showing her where the bathroom was and explaining about the lock that doesn't work too well when the doorbell rang. At first I thought it was my father and I was scared, kind of, but it was Mrs. Clune, our next door neighbor, the one whose telephone we use. She told my mother that my father had missed his ride home and would John come and get him in the car. Mother frowned and thanked Mrs. Clune, who was staring at Doris. I don't like Mrs. Clune much, and I though it was neat the way Doris stared right back.
John said he'd see us all in a minute and that he was sorry he had to leave Doris alone with The Brat, which is what he calls me all the time. I like it, though, when he says it. She smiled and said she didn't mind and called him "Darling" in a funny kind of voice, like she had a cold. John got even redder then, and almost tripped going out the door.
Doris called into the kitchen to my mother and told her she'd love to help her, but she'd only be in the way. I thought this was pretty funny, but she told me she just never learned how to cook. She said she'd just sit in the living room with me.
I was kind of scared, being in there all alone with her, but I remembered to be polite and ask her if she'd like to watch television. She smiled that same smile that went with the "Darling" before, and said no, she'd just read a littlecould I find her a book or a magazine or something? Well, all I could find was an old Reader's Digest, and she said she'd rather just sit and talk. So we did, and I told her all about John's going away, and how I was going to someday too. I even told her about the almost black suit, and what my father my father had said. When I asked her why he had called John "Joe College" she got all tight, kind of. She almost whispered, but it was the loudest whisper I've ever heard, "Because he's a stupid, vicious, narrow-minded provincialist" -I can remember the words exactly right now, even if I don't know what she meant, because they sound so nice all run together. Stupidvi.:iousnarrowmindedprovincialist. Nice the way I say it, but the way Doris said it was awful, like she wanted to hit something real hard. I looked at her, sitting there stiff and kind of bright, and - I don't know why - I wanted to hit something too.
Margaret Logan, '57
UfJ
Scrabble
The written symbol of the spoken word Reveals the Scrabble scramble of the mind
To spell, at play, the image which occurred When mind held hands with heart. A game to find The idiomatic moment of a soul.
-Rosalind Allen, '57
Sonne/
This was late summer at DeerCTossfar in New Hampshire's quiet hills; a cold brook's call
In bluberry time and up the mountain then
With pail and let the maples think of fall/-
Through open birchwood run and find a flame
Of Indian paintbrush close to earth and mark
How fire in flower and sun can be the same;
The peace of unclaimed hills and fields; at dark
A rain sound heard, the wind on leaves and night
Spreads chill and fires leap up. A farm apart
Is living close-late summer and delight
In DeerCTossdays, too full, too sweet for heart
To grasp, to hold, to feel, to love enough
The line and lift, the thrust of one green bluff!
-Macon
Moring, '56
Editorials
The Unseen University Essays, complaints, and lamentations from many pens have been heard in recent years about the loss of the Old university. I am reminded of the ivy-covered, stone-structured, tomb-quiet halls of learning of yesteryear. There is much to say for the "hallowed halls of ivy" where the radio, phonograph, and television set were unheard of. I can certainly see the advantage of an evening without the groans and rumblings of Kenton.
In the Old university, each student knew what he was there for, and pursued his chosen way. Inspiration aplenty was available on every hand. In the silent caverns of the library, amongst leather-bound volumes of human knowledge, he discovered treasures freely given. He was instructed in living by Plato and Aristotle; by the Prophets and the Son of God. The dim light falling on the dark furniture only added to the overwhelming mystery and wonder of the past.
A late evening stroll afforded pleasure never to be forgotten. Nature and knowledge walked together on every campus. A book enjoyed by the dying rays of the autumn sun, a sleigh ride with a friend on Christmas Eve, a breath of spring air in early April, and the billowing foliage of a summer tree--delights no one could refuse.
Now-the forest is lost because of the trees. The mystery has seemed to vanish with the monstrous machines which prowl around during a building program. Hurtling missiles of steel make an "evening stroll" hazardous to life, let alone composed thinking. Fluorescence, incandescence, and the scurrying of electrons over copper ribbons have dispelled the romantic dimness of old. The resonating clamor of college "cats" and "kittens" rules out concentrated study.
I may seem to contradict myself, but the Old university is still here; it is just unseen. It reveals itself in the losing of oneself in the pages of English literature, even if for some it is only monetary. Gothic architecture and pure moonlight recapture some of the stillness lost long ago. The Acropolis of ancient Athens returns with the early morning vectors of the light that has illumined mankind since the beginning of time. He who has eyes, let him see. -H.D.G.
Editoral Policy
No Pornograph Needed. A word of cheer to those of you who do-have pornographs!!
Several days ago I bumped into a Westhampton freshman on the Green. When she had sufficiently recovered from the fall ·she said that she had a very pertinent question to ask me and when I told her to go ahead she came forth with, "Where can I get a pornograph ?" Thinking I had misunderstood her I said, "A what?" and she, "A pornograph. My brother goes to one of the universities near here and he told me that one was necessary for the interpretation of all college publications." I exhaled slowly and assured her, as I am happy to assure you, that there is no pornograph needed for the reading of The Messenger.
If any of you are disappointed at this news we extend our sympathy and suggest that you transfer to one of the neighboring schools where humor is the publication policy. Publication fee cannot be refunded.
To those who, despite all political affiliations, are tickled pink at our policy and to those of you who will grin and bear it let me say "bonjour tristesse'' and a line or two of explanation.
A Line or Two 0' Explanation. Don't look now, but the old Messenger has the New Look, unlike Dior, however, we hope it will be packed to the seams with new ideas, interesting features, cartoons, a joke or two, poems and stories for the literary minded as well as for the not-so-literate. All of this is part of our new editorial policy designed with the idea of pleasing you and You and YOU. Something for everyone from the most microscopic bookworms to the Gargantuan football players.
Since it is your magazine we welcome all constructive criticism and suggestions. We welcome also contributions but don't forget ye ol' Messenger is a dignified magazine.
There's Dignity Involved. The Messenger is the oldest college literary magazine in the state and oldest student publication on campus, celebrating its eightieth anniversary this year. By working together we can make its eightieth year one of its best years. -L.M.R.
Discovery
A few months ago while living in Puerto Rico I was planning to study law. I had just graduated with my B.A. degree and like any graduate who wants to change his environment and have new adventures, I decided to come to the States. I knew that the study of law would be hard, that it would require devotion and love, and that I should be sure that it was to be my vocation. I was sure of my love for the law study and that I wished it to be my vocation. But I stopped to think. It was necessary to decide: "The university to which I am going should play its true role. What is the role of a university?"
A university is a reality when it is possible for professors and students among themselves and together to establish communication to the heights of reflection and of a free and impartial mind in a community of spiritual life. The philosophical tradition constitutes the core of mental incitement and spiritual preoccupation. The greatness of these qualities conditions the academic atmosphere at the same time it encourages the discovery and the cultivation of potentialities and genuine insight and comprehension of human problems. Emerging from that center is the unity of teaching activities from philosophical thought to natural science, social studies, arts, literature, scientific research, and professional knowledge.
The essence of university life has its foundation in freedom of thought and expression of the professors, and in the liberty of students to learn and participate in the processes of the mind with an attitude of profound respect for the creative truth and the creative doubts. The importance is in the human beings. And that is the basic idea that should permeate the university atmosphere. This idea is that man finds his dignity in being human and not inhuman. In other words, transcending the chaos of his own barbarity, man comes to treat his fellow creatures like ends, not like means; he is tied to others ethically .in the sincerity of a relationship of
Please turn to page 20 14
Book Review
Band of Angels by Robert Penn Warren, Random House, 1955.
Amantha Starr's life, as she tells it in Band of Ange'ls, was one of violent contrasts, bizarre experiences, and a continual struggle for the freedom of self-realization, during the era of the Civil War.
Amantha spent her early childhood, in the years immediately preceding the war, on her father's Kentucky plantation. There, she was fond of playing with her d o 11s in a lovely shaded place near the grave of her mother, of whom she had no recollection. Never in her childhood musings did Amantha dream that the briefly inscribed stone which marked her favorite playground, marked too a dark secret which was later to direct her whole life.
When nine years old, Amantha was sent to Oberlin, Ohio, for her education, not to return home again until seven years later upon the death of her father, Aaron Starr. Even as Amantha stood by her father's graveside, the terrible secret of that other grave was revealed to her. Suddenly, Amantha Starr, well-born, free, and white, became Amantha Starr, Negress and slave-the slave of her own bankrupt father. Seized by Aaron's creditors, Amantha was taken down river to New Orleans where she was quickly sold at a handsome price.
Here, on the brink of the Civil War, Amantha's real life -her struggle for freedom, began. Amantha sought her freedom through those who lives touched hers most closely: Hamish Bond, the man who had bought Amantha and could give her only legal freedom; Seth Parton, her Oberlin sweetheart whom she met again in New Orleans; Miss Idell, Aaron Starr's beautiful mistress; Rau-Ru, Hamish Bond's k'la; Tobias Serars, the New England idealist who became Amantha's husband. All failed Amantha as her father had; it was not until one day in middle life that she made a startling discovery ....
Band on Ange'ls is more than the story of Amantha Starr, more than a vivid picture of the Civil War era, which 15
in its far-reaching effects is prominent in our thinking at the present day. It is a composition on freedom-what is freedom, and how is it attained?-a theme important in all times to all men.
Robert Penn Warren, well-known poet and novelist, was born in Guthrie, Kentucky, in 1905. He was graduated summa cum laude from Vanderbilt University, received his Master's Degree from the University of California, later studied at Yale University, and in 1928 went to Oxford as a Rhodes scholar.
Upon returning to the United States, Mr. Warren taught first at Southwestern College, then at Vanderbilt University. In 1934 he moved to Louisiana State University where in addition to teaching, he became one of the founders and editors of the distinguished literary magazine, The Southern Review. From 1942 to 1950, he was Professor of ,English at the University of Minnesota; in 1944 -45, he also served as Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress. Since 1951 he has been on the faculty of Yale University, teaching in the English Department and Drama School.
In 1939 Mr. Warren published his first novel, Night Rider, receiving in the same year his first Guggenheim Fellowship. In 1943 came At Heaven's Gate; in 1946 All The King's Men, which won him the Pulitzer Prize. His fourth novel, World Enough and Time, appeared in 1950. Mr. Warren's other work includes Brother To Dragons: A Tale in Verse and Voice (1953), three volumes of poetry, a short story collection The Circus in The Attic, many critical studies and textbooks, and of course, his latest novel, Band of Ange7,s.
-Macon Moring
Down to the Sea
The beach was a sterile thing-like some pure virgin, unmarred by human touch, perfect in its completeness. The water was a deep, reflective blue, almost crystal clear; that combined with the gracefulness of the combers gave the impression of a dream, a trance-like existence that would give itself over to me for a moment, then disappear entirely almost as if I had never found it. With the thundering of the breakers the sands would seem to come alive, moving against the sea. They were reluctant, careful, moving w i t h a subtle savagery, sidling away from the feet of careless thousands. The gulls dipped and soared, poising themselves over the water; the porpoise plunged in and out, playfully snapping at the whitecaps as they rippled by. The beach was a place for the children, and the innocent.
It is always strange for me to remember that summer. It was no different from the other, a hurried three months filled with dread anticipation, a quick fling, a final dramatic climax, and then the careless memories. The curiosity, the quick boredom, the studied indifference-the stereotype of my friends, the mark of myself. Yet it is because of these friends that I cannot forget. And with the memory comes a melancholy, a diffusion of emotions, leaving me empty and sad.
That night we sat on the terrace of our tiny cottage and chatted about small, indifferent matters, in the way of the very young and very old. Far out to sea the lights of some lonely ship would glimmer for an instant on our horizon and then dip again into the black void. I had never felt more alone, more isolated, than I did then with the closest friends that I had ever known crowded about me. I am not Bohemian, but sometimes the need for solitude, for aloneness, grips me and drives me to some distant place far from the mark of the world, where I can be alone with my thoughts. So without bothering to explain, I slipped off the terrace onto the cool sand, and raced down the beach. The blackness of the night closed about me shutting me from the eyes of my too-curious
friends. At last, I flung myself down, exhausted. Here I could shed the encumberances of society and throw myself into life without the passivity that seems to govern convention. It was like taking off a piece of clothing that is no longer needed; it was like standing in a warm shower and letting the water course gently along the body. With a feeling almost akin to pain, I realized that I wanted to stay here. I could see the whitecaps and a second later hear the crash of the wave as it tumbled onto the beach. But it was only because I knew these t h i n g s that I saw them as I did. If I had not known, then perhaps my thoughts would have been different, perhaps some new feeling would come ... but then, how can I miss the absence of something I had never known. For that reason I would have liked to stay; I wanted to discover the unknown, to shed the embarrassment of society, to learn the power of self-containment.
Next morning I fixed breakfast as an appeasement for my night's truancy. I would have liked to assuage my friends in the least offensive manner. But there were no questions, it seemed as if they understood and were content to let me have my freedom. So, armed with this understanding I flung on an old bathing suit, packed a few sandwiches, and set out up the beach in the direction which I had chosen the night before. How different the light of day can make the things only felt during the night. How easily the reserve of darkness changes into the welcome of light. The mists were gathering over the hill when I found the place where I had lain ony a few hours ago. The imprint of my body still marred the even surface of the sand, but even that would be wiped out by the tides. There would be notthing left but memories, but what other residue could one possibly want? ... the eternal experience, the perpetual mirth of life, the easy existence of a beachcomber. I walked slowly away from the place, away from my dreams, down the lonesome beach stretching interminably in front of me.
There are some things of which we have no further need. I think back now to that dim morning when meanings seemed to shape for me, when time s e e m e d to recede and leave nothing but the appetites of my ambition, when my old self seemed to drop from me like a discarded rag. I shook myself
like a wet dog, thinking in that motion to shake from myself the stain of existence. I felt an easy contempt for the society I freely left behind. I dropped the brown sack that held my lunch and tearing off the shirt that I wore, plunged giddily into the cool blue of the water. The shock of it seemed to freeze all movement. I plunged about wildly, almost as if by the impact of the water against my body I could wash away the dregs of my life. And when the ecstasy had sated my spirits I staggered out and dropped on the beach, content to let the sun soak up the remainder of my energy . Never before had I felt such bliss, never could I remember such simplicity, such utter lack of conscience
When I awoke the sun was directly overhead. I opened the brown sack and took out a sandwich. It was soggy with the heat, but that did not matter. Nothing could have made a difference; I was happy with the limitless frivolity of youth that does not reckon with tomorrow, that cares nothing for the future, that considers the present as a ceaseless machine to be expended at will. I p i c k e d up a piece of driftwood, beautifully aged by the pounding of the sea, almost ivory in color. I walked with it down the beach, munching on the last of my sandwich. I knew of several old shacks here, abandoned by past tramps, free to anyone who chose to stay.
I would hang this driftwood on the wall. I ran my hand along the smooth wood, wondering at the evenness of its texture. I remembered the softness of the feathers of a tiny bird that I had killed. It reminded me of that softness, and I felt a little sad. I found one of those old shacks, hidden between two immense dunes. I did not pause to reflect then, but now I marvel at the fate that seemed to surround me ; I suppose that happiness finds its key in the impossibility of failure.
I went out on the beach and lay down again. I would surprise my friends; I could anticipate their astonishment, even their laughter, the awe slowly congealing into contempt I stretched out to contemplate the way in which I would tell them, but the hot sun muddled my thoughts and presently I drifted off to sleep.
When I awoke I found them standing over me. They were all tall, lithe, with hard glistening bodies. The sun had tanned them a deep mahogany and the wind had chiseled their
features into fine, carefree lines. They were like no humans I had ever seen before, and instinctively I recognized in each the beachcomber. They all sat down, their motions fluid, the muscles under the sleek skin rippling sensuously. They were kind, with an understanding of humanity that comes with separation from it. And when they spoke it was with the gentle tolerance of the very wise, the calm assurance of the very humble. Finally they went away, leaving only the girl. "You went into the cabin, didn't you?" I nodded. "And left the piece of driftwood?"
"Yes." The sea and the sands stretched before me. I lay as if nailed to the beach. She could read my thoughts; she could even see into my mind if she liked.
"Stay if you like, but remember that once you are here, there is no going back." She left me then, and still I lay, immovable like some dead thing that the sea had washed up. The sun sank toward the ocean ... I arose heavily, slung the faded shirt over my shoulders, and trudged back down the beach. But I knew that someday I would keep my dream.
Mary Elizabeth Hix, '57
Discovery, continued from page 14 equality. Each person can rise above his era in the land of his ancestors; he can perceive new spiritual universes that fructify life and the destiny of his land.
The humanization of man should be stimulated by close contact with the experiences of the human spirit: beauty, truth, justice, curiosity, and responsibility.
That is what I was seeking a few months ago. And that is the reason I came to the University of Richmond, not a big university, physically speaking, but enormous in its cultural background. 1 am now feeling the wind of knowledge that began to appear in my horizon, and I am sure I have found the place I was trying to find.
Nicolas Delgado, Law School
Ode To An Aumbrey
Hail! All hail to thee, our new Retreat
For those who feel constrained to look for clues
To find out what the prof was putting over In jumbled notes of hasty chicken-scratching
Which seem to dare the student's searching glance LET'S GO TO THE LIBRARY TONIGHT AND STUDY!
Hail to thee, all hail, our fine Abode
Of those who gladly search the brim-full stacks, In cheerful glees then tell us "it's signed out," And seem to know exactly where it isn't, Which does us little good, so we go in
To look for ourselves, then find the book we seek In hiding (out of place, of course) with others Of ultra-different title, type, or number! BUT IT SAYS IN THE OARD OAT ALOGUE . ...
Hail! All hail to thee! We hope that you Will soon be settled into shape and form
To render us the adequate support We need for term or semester report, Research paper, lecture, or perhaps A mere investigation as to facts
Concerning Ezra Pound, or French sYntax, Or Joseph Andrews, His Life and Demise, The reign of Edward VI, or Price Supports, Or even whether Frederick I had dandruff!
ANYBODY WANT A LOOK AT SOME PICTURES OF PATAGONIAN PIE-PEDDLERS'!
Adair
McConnell, '56 21
Rip Van McClutz
Private Doc Van McClutz, better known as "Little Doc," -the adjective had nothing to do with his seventy-six inches, but referred rather, to the size of his brain-, yawned mightily. His leaden lids dropped over his slightly protruding brown eyes. His tiny button nose, ludicrous in such a round, enormous face, twitched.
"Gee, fellas," said Little Doc, plaintively to his bunkmates, "I'm tired."
"Tired," echoed Pounder, "You can't be tired now. It's almost time for chow."
Without deigning to reply, Private McClutz dropped his three hundred pounds on the bunk. His eyelids gave up the struggle to remain open and gradually an expression of deep peace spread over his massive features.
"He's asleep," declared one of the boys, unnecessarily.
"Well, then, he'll have to miss chow," said another, in accents of unholy glee. "Come on there's no sense in our starving.
Some fifty minutes later the three comrades returned; the gaping pits that existed behind those G.I. belts were now comfortably filled.
"It's almost a shame to wake up Little Doc. He's sleeping like a teensy baby," cooed Pounder, as he lovingly wrapped one hand about the water pitcher.
"No, wait!" cried Josh.
"What's the matter? You getting soft in your old age?"
"No, but I've got a better idea. Look outside. What do you see?"
Pounder gazed out into the soft half-light which pro· claimed the end of day. "I don't see anything."
Josh, the man of ideas, leaned over confidently and pro· ceeded to explain his plan. When he finished, Pounder gazed upon him with a look that only ingenuity inspires.
"I'll spread the word around," said Pounder. "Josh, you go down and tell the Sergeant."
Twenty minutes later, the Sergeant and the men of the barracks, having been duly informed of what was to happen, 22
Pounder approached the bunk of Little Doc and gently shook the arm hanging limply over the side.
Nothing happened. After five minutes and the combined efforts of J ash and Pounder, Little Doc opened his eyes.
"Uh, what?" he muttered. "Is it time for chow yet?" His friends gazed at him sorrowfully.
"Doc-Little Doc-Ex-private McClutz-where have you been the last ten days?" inquired Josh.
"Huh-Ex-private--what do you mean, 'ex?' " asked Little Doc.
"You'll probably be court-martialed," predicted Pounder. "Imagine going A.W.O.L. for ten days from this lovely camp with all the kind, considerate officers."
"A.W.O.L.!" Who went A.W.O.L.? All I did was to lie down for a little snooze till it was time for chow."
"And when we turned around you were gone," added Pounder mournfully. "That was ten days ago--Wednesday night, remember? And here it is the second Saturday since you left us. Where were you, pal? You can tell us; we're your buddies. "
"Morning," yelped Little Doc, as he glanced out the window. His brain could only take one thing at a time. "But it can't be."
"But it is," said Josh. Then for the second time that evening commanded, "Take a close look outside."
Little Doc gazed at the soft half-light. It did indeed look like very early morning.
"You're razzing me," shouted McClutz, but there was a note of appeal in his voice.
"Look around and see for yourself," answered Pounder.
Little Doc gaped. His bunkmates, as he now realized, had been unconcernedly mopping up, a procedure which, as he well knew, was followed every morning.
A hoarse bellow escaped the unhappy Private. In agony, he ran into the next barracks, followed by Josh and Pounder. There a number of individuals were engaged in mopping. Doc approached one dead-pan mop wielder, and asked almost tearfully, "What day is today?"
Dead-pan looked up. "Saturday, chum," he replied, then suddenly-"Say ain't you Doc McClutz?" Upon receiving a 23
miserable affirmation, he asked, "Where have you been the last ten days, chum?"
This was too much for Little Doc. He looked frantically from side to side, resembling nothing as much as a terrified bull. What might have happened next will never be known, for at that moment the voice of the Drill Sergeant could be heard in the room.
"PRN ATE McCLUTZ!"
Private McClutz looked miserably at him.
"So-o-o-, Private McClutz, the drill sergeant's voice softened to a mere roar, "You decided to take a little holiday, did you? Well, come with me-you deserter, you!"
Little Doc swallowed the lump in his throat.
"But, Sergeant-"
The Sergeant, Josh, Pounder and Little Doc marched out. The latter was too busy with his chaotic thoughts (if tur• moil in his brain could be designated by that name) to realize that the hall and the stairs were crowded with soldiers, who, informed by the grapevine of the proceedings, had gathered to see the fun. To the door Doc and the three men marc h ed. Out they stepped into the street. Little Doc stopped. It was, by this time quite dark. At the expression on his face, Josh could not repress a little snort. Slowly, dreadful understanding pervaded the brain of Little Doc. Pounder could no longer contain himself. He burst into a joyous laugh which echoed a moment later by a hundred throats.
It was later claimed, although skeptics (who were only jealous because they missed it) refused to believe it, that a drill sergeant actually rolled on the ground with mirth.
Margie Kantner, '56
Contest Announcement
The supreme purpose of The Messenger is promotion of student literary endeavors on campus, but it encourages strongly participation in contests which are valuable in professional criticism and often in material rewards.
The Virginia Quarterly Review has made announcement of prize awards amounting to fifteen hundred dollars for poetry and short stories. The contest is now open and will close on January 1, 1956. Manuscripts should be marked "Emily Clark Balch Prize Contest" and sent to The Virg inia Quarterly Review, One West Range, Charlottesville, Virginia. Prize winning stories and poems will be published in The Virginia Quarterly Review. This contest is open to all American writers.
Several national magazines sponsor writing contests among which are the Mademoiselle contest for college women (for details see Westhampton cloister bulletin board) and the annual Atla.ntic Monthly contest which is held each spring.
