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Gloria Viegener
It was an unusual topic of conversation for a bridge party -the nature of death. None of the players could have told exactly how or when the transition had been made from the idle chatter that ordinarily occupies the time of two young couples to the present morbid argument. And argument it was, for the good Dr. James could not bring himself to agree with Reverend White, despite his wife's previous admonition that a dispute with White Stone's only minister might have unfortunate effects upon his practice, in addition to whatever perdition he might reap at some later date.
Doctor James had done his best to avoid any disagreement. He had talked dutifully about the weather, and had tried to found a conversation on the little he had gleaned from his infrequent visits to church. Those attempts having been quickly exhausted, he hopefully broached the subject of baseball, only to find that the duties of a small town pastor were far too demanding to allow time for such idle diversion. The more the doctor talked to this fellow, the less important his wife's social coup in being the first to entertain the new minister and his wife seemed. And now this argument. The doctor, observing that his adversary was finished or at least temporarily halted, seized his opportunity.
"Death is nothing more or less than the cessation of the bodily functions. I've seen enough men die to know that."
"I must disagree." Reverend White's debate was as clear and concise as his sermons were vague and verbose. "Life is the will to live. As a doctor, you know that without that will a man is half dead already. The mind is the seat of life. The body is a vehicle, granted a most complicated and wonderful one, but still just a vehicle for the will. Someday man will discipline the spiritual to supercede the physical.''
"Nonsense! Death is simply the cessation of bodily functions." Dr. James, like the advertising men, believed in the force of repetition. Besides, he had been formulating a de-
fense against his wife's inevitable tirade when the Whites left. "I've seen dead men that wanted like hell to live!" As soon as the doctor uttered this, he realized his error. One just doesn't talk so lightly of Hades to one's pastor.
Mrs. James, having recovered her presence of mind after a brief moment of shocked silence, leaped into the breach with an offer of coffee. Tempers cooled and stomachs warmed, the bridge continued, but there was a coolness now, and the party was over soon.
It had been a week since the party. The idea that had germinated there had since burgeoned to the proportions of an obsession, for it had a fertile field in which to grow. Reverend White was not extremely intelligent, but he excelled in everything he tried. This was the result of patience that would have shamed a sphinx and a persistence that exceeded his patience. It had been a matter of speculation among the townspeople as to how long his mediocre mind could withstand the stress of a will so powerful. Now it appeared that casual conversation might hasten this unfortunate demise.
The evening sun, impaled on the sharp Appalachian peaks, watched its life blood flowing down the mountainsides into the streets of White Stone. The leaves of the trees arching the street mirrored the red bath, and a stream sang its way through town. On Main Street, the well-ordered row of houses were first beginning to wink at the enfolding dark. At Number 69, the parsonage, the yard was impeccable as usual. The row of flowers were, like the Reverend's sermons, perfectuninteresting, but perfect. A light in the dining room indicated the presence there of two of the house's three inhabitants. The glow of a small night-light in an upstairs window meant that the baby had already been put to bed. It was a scene of small town serenity, but its effects were lost on the only figure in the street, a large dog, half-heartedly seeking an elusive flea. From the eyes of the parsonage, the first traces of blue smoke floated lazily out on the spring air.
The Whites were still newcomers enough to enjoy the loveliness of a mountain sunset, and they left the dishes to stroll down by the stream to watch the day's final burst of glory. It was almost half an hour before they were snatched from their reverie by the wail of a siren. Mrs. White gave a little scream as they saw the town firetruck swing onto Main Street. They ran together for a moment but as the truck screeched to a halt
in front of the parsonage, his strides grew longer and more rapid until the distance seemed to melt before him. His wife's cries for the baby urged him on.
A knot of people had already gathered when the Reverend arrived. He pushed his way through and ran on toward the house. It was half hidden by the smoke and fire belched from the roof. Already tiny tongues of flame were licking at the upper story as a gourmet might savor his food before devouring it. Grotesque shadows danced on the faces of the spectators like some weird voodoo ceremony. Lunging for the door, the Reverend felt a hand close over his shoulder. He turned and swung with all his might. The fireman dropped like a poled ox. A second later the Reverend was swallowed in the wall of smoke that now obscured the house.
Once inside Reverend White's mind began to function again. Smoke filled his eyes, his nose, his mouth. Covering his face as best he could with his handkerchief, he lurched on. The stairs loomed upward before him into infinity. He staggered toward them. There was a crack above him. He glanced up in time to see a beam coming through the ceiling. There was a flashing plain in his back and he slumped to the floor. He had no way of knowing how long he lay there. He fought back a wave of vertigo and struggled to his feet. He wondered if he would die. His argument with the doctor kept beating on his mind. For the first time he had been completely and irrevocably wrong. Somehow he was up the stairs and in the nursery. He was praying now. If only the baby could be alive. There was a thick breathing in the corner. Thank God! He was alive! He threw his coat over the tiny form and ran as best he could for the door. It was such an effort just to think. It would be so much easier to just lie down and let the warm fire cover him like a blanket. But the baby. The heat came now like clashes from a blast furnace. He could see rather than feel it. His arms were covered with blisters. He grabbed the knob and flung open the door. The skin slipped from his hand like a glove. If he could just get to the door. The desire to fill the baby's lungs with good, pure air obliterated every other idea. He fought on, not even knowing that he fought. Down the hall, he walked, like an aerialist through a sea on fire, but it soon passed. He was down the stairs, stumbling towards the small square of light that was the door.
(Continued on Page 19)
DAVID McCANTS
The following is the complete text of the speech which won second place in the public speaking contest at the National Tau Kappa Alpha Debate Tournament held at the University of Kentucky April 10-12, 1958, in competition with forty-five students throughout the nation.
Ladies and Gentlemen:
It has been estimated that the mm1mum daily need of water for an individual is twenty gallons. It h,s:tsalso been estimated, however, that we live in a nation in· which each person uses 1500 gallons of water a day. In order to maintain such a level of consumption, it is necessary that immediate plans be laid to adequately provide water resources for the future. Americans can be a wasteful people. Often an abundance of resources causes us to overlook the possibility of depletion, misuse, or mismanagement. In these few minutes I would like to speak with you concerning the protection and provision of water resources for the future.
There are three reasons for the alarm that our water resources might not be adequate for future needs. The first of these reasons is the unequal distribution of water throughout the country. Our nation is interspersed with swamps and deserts. Across our nation is found a full range of climatic conditions. In Maine, for example, the average annual rainfall is forty inches. Fifteen inches of this rainfall evaporates. In Arizona the average annual rainfall is fourteen inches. Over thirteen of these fourteen inches evaporate. In the seventeen westernmost states of our nation, the yield after evaporation averages only four inches. This, then, is the description of the uneven distribution of water resources in our nation.
The second cause for alarm that our water resources might not be adequate for future needs is due to the growth
of water usage, particularly by industry. It is said that soon the great Milwaukee breweries will have to depend on Lake Michigan for water. The wells which made them famous can no longer supply the necessary amounts of water for production. In Phoenix, Arizona, a Goodyear Rubber plant was built thirty-five years ago. At that time water was raised from twenty feet beneath the ground. Today the Goodyear Rubber Company must drill more than one hundred feet to obtain adequate supplies of water. Hundreds of other localities are faced with this same problem. The water table beneath the ground is falling because of overuse.
Perhaps, in your mind you are raising this objection to what I am saying. Perhaps you are saying we have nothing to worry about because water has been found as far beneath the surface as one mile. But in the instance of such an objection I might add that if water is raised more than 600 feet, the cost becomes so great that industry cannot afford to carry on operations.
The President's Materials Policy Committee reported in 1952 that since 1900 the amount of water used annually in our nation had quadrupled. The prediction of this Committee was that by 1975 the amount of water used annually would double again. The Hoover Commission was not quite this optimistic. The report, more recent than that of the President's Materials Policy Committee, said that the 1952 report overestimated our nation's water resources. The Hoover Commission predicted that in twenty years the demand for water would exceed the supply. The opinion of this study was that the demand would exceed the supply by twenty-five per cent.
It has already been stated that this increase has not been in personal uses or for irrigation. The growth has been in industry. As necessary, however, as are the products manufactured by this water, we cannot overlook the fact that a single steam generator for the production of electrical power uses forty billion gallons of water a day. Nor can we ignore the fact that the synthetic products such as nylon and rayon, which we manufacture with this power, require more water for their production than the materials they replace.
The third reason for alarm is the endangering of water supplies through pollution. Countless cities and towns flush raw, untreated sewage into once beautiful streams and rivers. Eleven thousand industrial plants empty millions of tons of
poisonous and corrosive wastes into these same rivers and streams. It is said that the 2,500,000,000 pounds of household detergents sold annually in our nation impede purification facilities in every city and town. But pollution really becomes a problem when we realize that 31,000,000 Americans live in cities and towns which have no water treatment facilities. Pollution has resulted in the closing of bathing beaches in Los Angeles at various times of the year. Pollution has also halted industrial expansion to a great extent.
These, then, are the alarming features of the situation: the uneven distribution of water resources, the growth of water usage, and the dangers of pollution. In the light of these alarming factors, how can the problem of providing adequate water researves for the future best be solved?
I believe that all three aspects of this problem can be met by a solution which is twofold. This solution embodies the conservation of water resources, including the control of pollution, and the importation of water to dry areas and areas requiring great amounts of water for industry. Government and industry can both work in striving to provide adequate water resources for the future. The government can institute anti-erosion projects, build dams, and inform the public concerning the proper use of plant life for the protection of water resources. Industry can develop means of recirculating cooling water. Industry must develop means of reclaiming used water. Above all, however, industry must accept antipollution measures as basic operational costs.
The importation of water is probably a proposal that is unfamiliar to most of you. In several areas of our nation, however, the importation of water is already a practice. Los Angeles exceeded its water supply several years ago. Today three pipe lines lead into that city. These lines bring water from distances of 250, 340, and 450 miles. In the Saginaw and Midland Michigan areas a General Motors plant and a Dow Chemical plant import water from Lake Huron, which is eighty miles away. Engineering-wise water can be piped almost any distance. Financially, the importation of water is also practical. Indeed, however, in order to be able to import additional water from the Great Lakes, a new international agreement must be negotiated with Canada.
I reiterate: We live in a nation where it has been esti-
(Continued on Page 24)
A waste of time when men conform
To cloistered ideas of the norm
Time spent in dulling mind's keen edge
Abrading tempered will's firm ledge
Time spent in stern manipulation
To kill a soul by sublimation-
A waste of time-a time of waste
To imitate a pearl with paste.
To first destroy and then remake
Is to communicate, desecrate, educate.
False standards made by minds infirm
Who to save the apple, eat the worm.
Alone the one who does not yield
To pleasured life's barren field
Of mental death, of vasselage prods
Not once his head in mimic nods
Not once in a smug rhythm-plod
Does he trample on Outsider's sod
His life is harsh, not so the drone
The lone man's curse, to know God, alone.
EDWARD DUGGAN
There is a difference between lonliness and aloneness Which only those alone can tell, The lonely live between hope and despair, The alone live only in Hell.
EDWARD DUGGAN
By RICHARD C. BROWN '58
Almost every popular magazine in the country in the past two years has carried one or more articles bemoaning the attitudes of college students of today. All around us, we hear the cries of adults asking where the collegiate individualism has gone. Sociologists and psychologists attempt to explain our predicament of conformity, but no one has asked us as college students to state why we think this way.
The popular description of the college student's conception of the ideal happy life is unfortunately correct. We do wish for a comfortable home in a young residential community, for a small family and a respectable place in an upper middle-class society. The college man does wish for a job with a large firm, with a reliable and substantial income, with long vacations. He desires for promotions to come periodically and to receive some degree of responsibility. He wants to be mildly active in civic affairs, but still to maintain a life of comfort, and to retire in the mid-sixties to a suburban lot, large enough to plant a garden. Security is the key-word rather than achievement. Social prestige is measured by the pay check. The emphasis is on being comfortable, yet cosmopolitan, in an optimistic society. Religion becomes a humanistic endeavor; the "religious" man gives liberally to the Community Chest and to the Red Cross, and gets along well with his neighbors.
This attitude could be considered quite appropriate for the average collegian. No one would deprive the regular Joe of this contented life. However, the great tragedy occurs when the superior student sets up this standard as his ideal. When the above average man in intelligence and leadership ability succombs to this type of life, aiming his own outlook too low, then there is cause for real concern. No man would ever admit his mediocricy and the death of his initiative ability, yet this condition becomes apparent as we look at our ablest classmates today. Very few want to be Bohemian 12
anymore. We would rather believe the social scientists when they encourage us to "adjust" to our environment. The rut is camouflaged as a contour chair, and the sophisticated senior often asks, "Why should I do any more than try to live a comfortable life?" We become the masters of lives without purpose. Some of the basic reasons for this trend are produced by our early ideals being stifled in colleges by our highest goals being lowered, and by an attempt to escape the exhaustive ordeals which colleges trust upon the better students.
1.
Talk to any high school student and catch a hint of his far off dreams. These dreams are a part of every young person, before they are processed by college life. Even we, once possessed the hope of doing something great, but this hope has faded into oblivion. The organized university has quenched this zealous fire rather than kindled it, and the man who is lauded is not the initiator, but the cooperator. Dreams have suddenly vanished when the dreamer realizes that he is nothing but a statistic, or a blob of carbon and water which occupies a numbered seat in the lecture room. The iconoclast is shunned as "unadapted" rather than commended for his courage. Even student political organizations constrain the crusader to be "one of the boys." The college officials cling to the status quo merely because of previous policy, and the progressive student meets a closed door in even suggesting a logical change.
2.
To replace his stifled ideals, the student is presented a set of lower goals. The large companies paint the picture of the perfect life and set it before the disillusioned student. Job opportunities promise a contented, remunerative, and secure future. Hence a materialism rather than an idealism replaces the high hopes of the starry-eyed dreamer. Raised in an environment of physical comfort, our minds favorably recall the ease of an existence free from anxiety. From this we develop a selfish and self-sufficient attitude toward life, not realizing that our own high intentions have been substituted by the easier, conforming way of life.
3.
Because the seniors are exhausted with college life, they readily accept these lower standards. A complex life is forced
upon us at college. Organization within organization, subcommittee within committee, an~. correlating groups within integrating bodies! Because the outstanding student leaders are the most active in these groups, they are the very ones whose life and strength are sapped from them. By the time the senior year draws to a close, the breathless participant will cling to anything which offers the greatest bit of relief. Social life has pressed so much upon the worn student that every weekend leaves him mentally read from the rigors of parties and dances. Even academic work is so arranged that it often becomes subservient to the high pressured extra-cirricular schedule. In spite of the impossibility of solitude, the need for it still remains. The tired student hopes that the contentment and security of a quiet adult life will offer some degree of relief from his paralyzing college career.
This way of life which is so popular in the minds of seldom duplicated in real life. When the man in the gray cessful life. A rut is nothing but a grave with the ends kicked out, and any man in this type of situation lives and dies a life of un-conspicuous failure. The paradox of security and adjustment versus zealous achievement is often resolved by the synthesis of a stereotyped personality of a twentiethcentury suburbanite. However, because we realize our plight, we are perhaps more apt to overcome it.
The fairy book phrase of "living happily ever after" is seldom duplicated in real life. When the man in the grey flannel suit discovers an ulcer at age forty, or when his wife develops cancer, or when his third child is born with a permanent brain injury, the shallow dreams of his materialistic heaven are shattered. His ideals, aimed too low to overcome such tragedy, in turn pervert the mind of the near-sighted zealot. The only solution that can survive is that we adopt a philosophy which remains above such disappointments. To grasp an ideology which becomes an obscession to the whole personality is the only security. This, for some, is Christianity, for others Communism, for still others a burning desire to lose the selfish interests of life into a valuable and permanent contribution to mankind. Only with an ideal aloof from the self, can we be spared the personal heartbreaks which could visit us as well as anyone. The disillusionment of the contented life as the ideal is much too low a goal.
By RICHARD L. SMALLEY '57
The little frame house was nestled between two scrawny cottonwood trees on a sun parched strip of earth near Highway 89. There was little foliage except for stragglely greasewood and cactus. Occasionally an automobile whizzed by on the straight highway that extened for miles without a solitary curve. It was time for that beautiful Arizona sunset, and the sun was sinking slowly behind the distant hills.
Sam Hudson was sitting on the low veranda of his house when he heard a car coming down the road. It was. a big sedan and it was coming fast. When it was about a hundred yards up to road he heard a loud pow! The car skidded and slid into the soft sand at the side of the road. The driver jumped out, surveyed the damage and then opened the trunk. A moment later a disgusted face appeared above the trunk lid. He spied Sam on his veranda and hurried in his direction.
"How do you do, I'm Paul Ridgeway," he said mopping his brow with a wrinkled handkerchief.
"Howdy," replied Sam absently.
"I just had a flat tire."
"I know," drawled Sam.
"I wonder if I could borrow your jack, I seem to have lost mine."
"Yup, could if I had one."
"I'll flag down a car," he said, worriedly glancing down the road.
"Don't reckon you will, ain't many folks care to come down this road after dark. Come on up on the veranda and set a spell."
"I don't guess I have much choice, do I?" he remarked stepping cautiously on the worn wooden steps.
"Nope, don't reckon you do. Pull up a chair and make yourself to home." Ridgeway sat down, but he kept glancing down the road as if he expected something to come down it any moment. "Told you there wouldn't be anybody else along
tonight", Sam said, noticing Ridgeway's nervousness. "I'm goin in and fix up some supper."
After supper Sam and Ridgeway walked back to the porch . Ridgeway said, "That was a pretty good dinner, uhh what did you say your name was?"
"Hudson, Sam Hudson."
"What do you do for a living Hudson?"
"Mostly nothing except when I have to do some chores for a little spending money or tobaccy."
Ridgeway was thinking to himself that this old guy had some way of making money. He didn't just live out here for nothing. Maybe he had a racket of some kind.
"I mean don't you do anything but sit out here."
"I mostly listen to the radio 'bout this time but it's busted." Hudson had taken something out of his pocket and was gazing at it absently. Ridgeway tried to see what it was but couldn't without looking suspicious.
Sam noticed Ridgeway's curiousity and explained that they were two gold nuggets, but when Ridgeway inquired about where they came from he changed the subject. That made Ridgeway even more curious. Maybe the old guy had a gold mine and was a miser. That could explain his living out here all alone with no friends not even a telephone. What a set up for a smart guy like himself-just sell this character on city life, buy the place, make enough money to retire and sell it to some other guy that wants to get ahead. He decided to give it a try.
"Sam, how long since you've been to the city, I mean a big city not these little hick towns."
"Reckon it's been 'bout six or eight years," Sam replied .
"You ought to give it another try, it's changed a lot since you were there. There's a lot more things to do now, and a guy with money can get almost anything he wants. If I were you I'd go crazy out here with nothing to do but listen to the radio and look at these blasted hills. Just think what you could be doing if you were in the city now. Instead of getting quiet like it is here it would just be beginning to get noisy." He watched old Sam's face for some sign that he was getting his point over.
Sam was thinking it over, it made sense, why should he waste his time out here when he could be in some big city liv16
ing it up. Ridgeway was still talking but Sam didn't even hear him, he was picturing himself walking up the street with a pocket full of money and a gay night ahead of him.
When he came to his senses Ridgeway was saying, "What do you think of that, pal?" He was smiling because he knew Sam was interested.
"That's be right nice but where'd I get enough money?"
"Would five thousand and a new car be enough? How about it, Sam? Five thousand dollars and my new car for your mine."
"What mine? I ain't got no mine.''
"Don't hand me that, I know you have a gold mine. Think it over and we'll talk business in the morning.''
That morning at breakfast neither of the men said a word., both were busy making plans for the future. Sam was thinking to himself, what luck; some rich city feller comes down the road, gets stranded for a night and figures he's got a gold mine on this worthless place. It was too easy. There must be a catch, but all that money. What was there to lose? He decided to make sure he had the money, and if he did sell him the place, high tail it for the city.
"How did you know I had the mine?" Sam asked curiously.
"Oh, I just put two and two together, pretty smart, huh?"
"If I was interested in selling. How would I know if you had the money?"
"That's easy, I'd pay you in cash," he said, reaching into his coat pocket and tossing a large bundle of bills on the table. "There it is, five thousand in cash.''
Sam greedily snatched up the bundle of money and rapidly counted it.
"The mine is as good as yours," he said excitedly.
"Then it's a deal?"
"Not yet, son, I'll need more'n five thousand fer what I got planned.''
"That's all I've got, and I can't get any more.''
"Well, then, maybe I'd better keep this place and work it myself. 'Cause five thousand just ain't much."
"Wait," said Ridgeway. "What about that brand new car, it's worth plenty. You can sell it when you get wherever you're going.''
"Maybe so, let me set on it a spell," he said rising from the 17
table. Ridgeway jumped up and grabbed the old man by his shirt.
"Listen here," as he spoke he twisted Sam's collar tighter, "You said you would sell now you aren't backing out?"
"Alright young feller, don't get all riled up, I'll sell." He smiled and picked the bundle up from the table. Ridgeway released his grip, and Sam rubbed his throat with a grizzly hand and mumbled something under his breath. He walked across the rough floor of the shack. Ridgeway followed suspiciously . Sam went out the back of the house to another small building and opened half of a garage door. Inside there was a rusty old Ford truck sitting on four flat tires. He kicked around among some picks-, shovels, and other mining equipment. He brought out a rusty but usable jack.
"Here," he handed Ridgeway the jack, "fix the tire while I get my belongings together." Ridgeway watched him enter the shack and then he started down the road toward the car .
Inside the shack Sam went about getting his things together. He threw his clothes into a bag and shaved off his long coarse beard. While he was admiring himself in the mirror a thought came to his mind. Why take these worn old clothes when the young feller had a nice blue suit. He kicked the bag of clothes into the corner and lifted Ridgeway's coat from the chair. He slipped on the coat and carefully put his precious bundle into the side pocket. The coat fit almost as if it had been made for him, but the pants would probably be a little tight. He'd get those from Ridgeway when he came back.
When Ridgeway finished putting on the spare tire and turned to go back to the house he saw Sam sitting in his chair on the porch. Without his beard and with Ridgeway's coat on he didn't look half bad. He'd probably want the pants too, but that'd be all right, anything to get him off the place. As he approached the porch he said, "Want the pants too?"
"Yep," Sam replied.
"Before you leave how about showing me where the mine is."
"I ain't got time to take you there, but do you see that sort of passageway there between them two hills?" He pointed to a low spot between two hills about a mile on the other side of the road, "Well, you head straight for that spot and you can't miss it."
He pointed out to Ridgeway all the area he had bought, changed to Ridgeway's suit pants and started for the car. He got in the car, and sat there a moment until he figured out how to start it. He put it in gear and spun out of the sand. With a screech of his tires he hit the pavement and in a few moments he was out of sight. Sam sank back against the seat and smiled as he thought of Ridgeway back there on three acres of land thinking he owned twenty and a gold mine.
Paul Ridgeway was so occupied with the thoughts of his gold mine that he didn't notice the State Police car until it screeched to a halt in front of the shack.
"Seen a black Chrysler sedan down this way?" the patrolman asked.
"Yeah, a car like that passed here just a few minutes ago. Step on it and you can catch him."
(Continued from Page 7)
With every step he fought a blackness that kept blotting out his vision.
Outside the crowd waited. At first they had hoped that somehow the Reverend might find the baby, might escape. Now the morbid remained to see the bodies.
Mrs. White lay on a pile of coats, her grief so spent in one wild frenzy that she could no longer even weep. She hardly noticed the horrified cry from the crowd and she was mercifully unconscious of the ghastly figure that reeled from the inferno. The form was black and practically naked. The arms and legs were seas of blisters. Charred stumps had replaced the feet and hands. Willing hands took the child, but no one tried to support the Reverend as he collapsed. Then a figure ran from the crowd, and Dr. James knelt beside the motionless form. Expert fingers probed the scorched heap. Seconds later the doctor arose, his face incredulous and horror-stricken. His voice was muffled and low. "This man died of a broken back-ten minutes ago ." Only one was close enough to hear this almost inaudible confession. A smile flickered across the face of the late Reverend White.
There's an academic desert surrounding you and me, Where the camels plod on wearily and hope to gain the sea; And their tarnished backs are laden with treasures to be soul, In the markets of the Occident; forr there they bring much gold.
Sand! Sand! Sand! Sand! as far as the eye can see! While the fever of the desert is scorching you and me.
The cacti grow a-shriveled beneath the moulten blue, And if you slash the heart o' them, they'll yield a drop or two. But the caravan continues along the unmarked trail, For the desert has no pity on the mind that's weak and frail. Sand! Sand! Sand! Sand! like billows on the sea, But oh! I should not mention that-you're thirsty just like me.
The Arab clears his gutt'ral throat, the camels rise again, For long you cannot tarry when the desert is your pen. The bones of men who did so, lie bleached upon the dunes, Their skeletons a-dancing to the sun-pipe's eery tunes.
Sand! Sand! Sand! Sand! beyond us, all around.
Accursed be this desert and her wisdom that confounds!
As the handiwork of idols this waste-land was begun, But the false gods all are melted in the furnace of the sun. Now their temples, white and marble, no longer stately stand, For the life-blood of divinity commingles with the sand. Sand! Sand! Sand! Sand! will evening never come? To hide this billowed bleakness from eyes which seek a home?
The hoary beasts of burden, undaunted by the heat, Wind on through this ubiquity with slow, yet certain feet. But you and I aren't camels; our sandals soon wear thin; From going where we've come from, and wond'ring where we've been.
Sand! Sand! Sand! Sand! My fate I cannot shun. My will lies on an anvil, the hammer is the sun!
Oh, when you scale the mountains above the western strand, Tell them that you saw me, a-burning on the sand. And through soft night descending on leaves of rustling green, Look downward to the East o' yo~to the academic plain. Sand! Sand! Sand! Sand! the caravan plows on, And no one marks my passing, save the sky, the sand, the sun.
Oh lovely, plain and strong defensive Muses, Let not a single one your duty shirk. Defend me now against such vile abuses And senseless scorns as make my soul to jerk, Heaped on me by a strange teacher's quirk. What evil, uncouth thing might he have seen In his poor life to make him so to irk At having students write a test in green? Oh Muse depart not now, the hour is all too mean.
Perhaps he's heard the label «putrid" used To talk of green. But here he surely errs. For that green is so by vile yellow abused That it's no longer green, but it's chartreuse. To label blue as «TRUE", my Muse demurs, But pirate black the carrion color we'll call. In bloody red the debtor poorly slurs
His numbers 'gainst the usurer's untimely call. And Nature's only lovely GREEN's above them all.
Enough of this antique meter. And to the point. Green is serene and green is clean
But m(Jlf'ethan that Green is green.
By THOMAS ATKINS '60
October 4, 1957, is a day that will live on in history. On that day, Russia, a nation formerly dismissed by most Westerners as scientifically and industrially backwards, launched the first earth satellite into outer space. The military and scientific smugness of the United States began slipping, and we were shocked into developing a deep concern for the utilization of our brain power. The nature of this program and its solution are matters of the gravest concern to each one of us.
When we began to investigate this situation, we readily discovered that it was far worse than had been anticipated by the majority of us. We discovered a tragic waste of intellect. Sixty per cent of our two million most gifted students don't go to college. It is true that a few of these students fail to reach college for financial reasons, but it is also true that more of them fail to reach college for a lack of interest and motivation. Dr. Paul Witty, of Northwestern University, who studied and analyzed the failure of these 1,200,000 mentally gifted students to go to college, reported that the bulk of them did not go to college for two basic reasons. Many had grown bored in primary and secondary schools with repetitive lessons that they had learned too easily. Others, having grown accustomed to easy learning, had begun to shirk hard, painstaking tasks and had never developed the work habits and the persistence that are so necessary for the proper development of mental resources. One of the findings at the White House Conference on Education was that among the top 25% of the students who graduate from high school, fewer than one half of them graduate from college, and the number of those who enter graduate work is almost negligible.
Eva H. Grant has called this large body of students who fail to reach their mental potential the "lost battalion". Many individual candidates for this "lost battalion" have received widespread publicity in recent issues of periodicals. Barry 22
Wichmann, an 11-year-old boy from Rockwell City, Iowa, has an I.Q. of 162. His life was summarized in an April, 1958, issue of Life. He had received only scanty and ineffective encouragement to exploit his vast mental resources. His school work had been only average. He was generally indifferent and bored with his school work. Dr. Paul Witty has cited the cases of several similar students whose intellectual curiosity had been subjected to ridicule, and who had been forced to remain in classes that had become dull and wasteful for their talents. Marie I. Rasey has cited the case of her gifted son, who was forced to sacrifice twelve years of his life to boredom, and indeed the list of such individual candidates for the "lost battalion" could be drawn out almost indefinitely. There are gifted children in every state who are not reaching their potential because of the constant intellectual boredom with which they are confronted.
How can we save and build up this brain power and talent which is now being wasted on such an alarming scale, and which we need so critically?
I believe that a program of acceleration, which has been tried on a small scale with great success, is the key to this problem. Such a program would greatly reduce ' the ranks of the "lost battalion", by eliminating much of the widespread boredom for the gifted which is driving so many of them into that unfortunate category today. Such a program should be carried out on three levels.
First, there should be programs of acceleration in primary and secondary schools. Such programs should be patterned basically from the Baltimore system which has worked so well during the past few years. In Baltimore, the gifted may complete all of the regular courses of the six years of elementary education in either four of five years. These gifted students may also complete their three years of junior high school work in two years. Finally, they may complete one year of college work in high school, so they may enter college as sophomores. Such a program of acceleration in primary and secondary education has the great advantage of allowing mentally gifted students to advance at a rate more closely suited to their own abilities than to those of the "average" child.
Acceleration should also be expanded through early admissions programs. As this program has operated to date, 23
420 high school girls and boys, "seeming ready academically and in terms of personal maturity", were allowed to omit the final portion of their high school careers and to go directly to college. About a dozen colleges have participated in this _ program. These include such institutions as Chicago, Columbia, and Yale. Dr. Paul Witty studied this program and termed it a tremendous success. He urged, however, that it should be operated on a much larger scale.
A third level on which programs of acceleration should be expanded is that _of colleges themselves. The late Dr. L. M. Terman reported , that in certain colleges which he had surveyed 20% of the sophomores and 15% of the freshmen exceeded the median scores of Seniors on objective achievement tests. Many of these gifted students, although mentally equal or superior to the average seniors, are forced to drag out their basic college education for four years, which in many cases become quite boring. This boredom causes many of these gifted students to abandon their plans for graduate work. Certainly they should have the opportunity to accelerate their college programs.
The brain power and talents of a large contingent of mentally gifted students are being wasted today, largely through the boredom with which many of the are confronted under the current system. I am convinced that if we are to preserve their talent and brain power which we need so critically we must adopt programs of acceleration in primary and secondary education, through early admissions programs, and on the collegiate level.
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mated the minimum daily need ·of water for an individual is twenty gallons. Yet we live in a nation where each person uses 1500 gallons of water a day. In order to maintain such a level of consumption, it is not only necessary that we plan how to best provide future resources of water, but it is imperative that we adopt such measures as have been proposed here today.
