The MESSENGER
January, 1924
I UNIVERSITYOF RICHMOND
i INCLUDES
! 1. Richmond College, a College of Liberal Arts for Men. f I 2. Westhampton College, a College of Liberal Arts for = 1 Women. ! 1 3. The T. C. Williams School of Law, a Professional ! I School of Law, offering the Degree of LL. B. l 1 4. The Summer School. W. L. Prince, M. A., Director.
Richmond College for Men
I I I i i i i i i i I i I
W. L. PRINCE, M. A., DEAN
Richmond College for Men is an old and well-endowed College of Liberal Arts, which is recognized everywhere as a Standard American College. Its degrees are accepted at face value in the great graduate and technical schools of America. Its alumni are so widely scattered through the nation that the new graduate immediately joins a large and friendly group of men holding positions of power and influence. The College occupies modern and well-equipped buildings, on a beautiful campus of 150 acres in the western suburbs of Richmond.
Westhampton College
MAY LANSFIELD KELLER, PH. D., DEAN
Westhampton College for Women, co-ordinate with Richmond College for Men, is housed in handsome buildings on a campus of 140 acres, separated from the Richmond College campus by a beautiful lake of about nine acres. All degrees are given by the University of Richmond, and those conferred on women are, in all respects, equivalent to those conferred on men. While the two institutions are co-ordinate, they are not co-educational.
i The T. C. Williams School of Law
i I :: J. H. BARNETT, JR., LL. B., SECRETARY
T !
Three years required for degree of LL. B. in the Morning ! Division, four years in the Evening Division. Strong faculty o~ ! r . seven professors. -Large Library. Moderate Fees. Open to both _i Men and Women. Students who so desire can work their way. ! ----- I !
For catalogue, booklet, or views, or other information concern- ! i ing entrance into any College, address the Dean or Secretary. ! i F. W. BOATWRIGHT - President ! l !
Vol. L
Subscription Price, $1.50 Per Annum
JANUARY, 1924
Richmond College No.
JUDSON EV ANS, JR. __________________________________Editor-in-Chief H. P. WHITE _______________________________________Business Manager
H. L. SMITHERS
L. C. DAVIS W. F. CUTHRIELL
Associate
Editors
K. A. PATE W. C. ATKINS C. H. ROBINSON
Westhampton College
LOUISE WILKINSON ________________________________Editor-in-Chief
ELSIE NOLAN _____________________________________Business Manager
DR. KELLER _________________________________________Advisory Editor
DR. LANDRUM ______________________________________Advisory Editor
All contributions should be handed to the department editors or the Editor-in-Chief by the 1st of each month preceding. Business communications and subscriptions should be directed to the Business Manager and Assistant Business Manager, respectively.
Address-
THE MESSENGER, University of Richmond, Va.
4
<fbitorial
Is your MESSENGERall you want it to be? Do you read it with pleasure or, do , you wonder that some of the material ever passed the editor in his right mind?
If you find this last to be true, why not try to remedy it yourself? Perhaps some story or poem of yours may overtop these ob jectionable literary efforts. Dont rave -act!
In kindergarten the teacher carefully leads the children into the ways of thinking and acting which she desires. She uses suggestion to a great extent. Do THE MESSENGEReditors have to treat college men and women like children to gain contributions to their magazine? For THE MESSENGERis your magazine. It endeavors to publish the cream of the literary work of the campus. Yet we would hate to label the space fillers which must sometimes be resorted to this college's "best efforts."
If a decree were published tomorrow saying that none but a certain picked group of people could hand in material to THE MESSENGER , how long would it be before the campus would be in an uproar? Your rights would be tampered with. THE MESSENGERprobably would be swamped with contributions and threats. But do such methods have to be used here? There are , of course , many who have neither the inclination nor the talent for writing, and who contribute to campus life in other and equally important ways. Yet there are surely some whose pen weaves tales or sings poetry, but who never submit these to THE MESSENGER.
You may have hidden talent. No one ever gets anywhere without endeavor. So try; give the results to the editors, and they'll do the rest !
-W.S.
w. E.
Heaven, to my childish imagination, was dimly pictured as a sort of glorified attic lying just above the soft blue ceiling of the world. Somewhere in the sky was an opening veiled by a fleecy cloud, which the cherubs pushed aside from time to time in order to let down a rainbow stairway, thrillingly steep and hard to climb as attic stairways are wont to be. I say cherubs, because heavily draped, harp-playing angels never intrigued my fancy. I always pref erred holiday cards of the Santa Claus, baby-chick variety to those crowded with hovering wings, and, even now, Fra Lippo Lippis' piquant little-boy angels appeal to me more strongly than the delicately spiritual creations of Fra Angelico. At any rate, I did not hesitate to replace the heavenly hosts by a company far more lively and more varied. It included Aunt Inez, who had died when a baby ( all the aunts I knew were so frightfully grown-up that the thought of a baby aunt fascinated me, my Scotch greatgrandfather in kilts and plaidie, the "Little Colonel," mother's negro mammy, quaint pinafored Alice in Wonderland, with hair as straight as my own, Moses still in his cradle of bulrushes, and Pocahontas. Nor did I find any incongruity in placing among them the little dog Jack that had bitten a policeman who tried to make friends with me in my carriage. They would all live together in a higgledy-piggledy land of pirate ships and horse-sleighs, Ekismo igloos, hoop skirts, and enchanted forests, where an apple tree at every other corner pointed, "This Way to Fairyland." The picture certainly owed no detail, Moses excepted, to the austere teachings of my grandmother. But our conceptions of heaven are always colored, I suppose, by the things we want most on earth. To me there could be t10 fairer reward for goodness than to live forever in an attic where the junk of the ages was stored.
The child's innate love of attics was doubly strong in me because of our family's inability to acquire a truly satisfactory one.
We moved t oo o ften. N o sooner was there a re spectable agglomeration of broken chairs, newspapers and magazines, outgrown clothing, gift calendars, rabbit skins and bird nests piled up in our attic than the house was found to be too small or too far from the car line, and the treasure-trove had to be consigned to the junk man. How my brother and I dreaded the greedy tinkle of the little bell that marked his slow, unrelenting approach to our door! The new home might be topped by the most spacious of dormerwindowed garrets, but a garret without heaps of rubbish is only an uninspiring storeroom. What charm can lurk in boxes of clean blankets you are forbidden to touch and carpets smelling of moth balls? Of all the dreary aspects of moving, this was hardest to bear -harder even than the critical glances of our new playmates and the suspicious sniffing of their dogs. The children could soon be subdued to admiration by a colorful account of the homes which had been ours, but, at the mention of attics, our little kingdom toppled. Cleanliness and moth balls are not things to boast of.
Yet, even if we had lived for years in one place, something would still have been lacking. An attic worthy of the name is not the product of one generation. It is a dusky retreat mellow with the faint odor of old leather, dry paper and dust, where you may chance upon the crazy quilt Cousin Sarah gave Grandmother as a bridal present or upon Father's first hunting jacket, where feather-ticks, trundle beds, and gaunt spinning wheels endure banishment with a forlorn dignity. Packed as it is with the tangible evidence of dead hobbies and tastes outworn, it functions as a kind of subconscious mind for the family, giving a sense of continuity to the stream of life that flows beneath it and casts up now and again a piece of wreckage to be added to the store. Nothing gives you so deep a root in the past as does a bit of that past lodged beneath your own roof. The primly cross-stitched motto of a faded sampler can conjure up a whole period with poignant vividness. Our lack of such a repository used to trouble me greatly. I don't believe I actually doubted the existence of my forebears -Grandmother certainly spoke of them with familiarity and conviction -but I felt somehow detached from them.
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There was not a spinning wheel, nor even a blunderbuss in our spotless garret.
In the remotest corner of our darkest closet is a battered object that makes me realize how much we have missed in not having an attic. It is one of those awkward, unstable rockers poised upon a platform -a thing with no plea of beauty or comfort to justify its preservation. Not old enough for an antique, it is merely out of date. Once, when the baskets of roses and violets on its upholstery were in their brilliant prime, it adorned Grandmother's parlor in company with sheaves of wheat in glass cases and plushcovered autograph albums. There it was, no doubt, at home. Since then it has gradually declined in position, occupying successively our living room, dining room, play room, and the closet in which it now reposes . It has proved itself an ungainly alien in any room; it holds itself complacently aloof from all schemes of decoration. We cannot bear more than an occasional sight of it, and yet we cling to it with a stubborn fondness. Its hollows remind us of the time when it could hold a sleepy little boy and girl in that dusky hour before lamps were lit. The dingy upholstery is interwoven with gay threads of childish dreams. That old rocker is the one piece of furniture which has traveled with us to all our many homes; it is a visib le link between the varied phases of our lives. Some day, I suppose, we shall watch it, too, depart in the washerwoman's Ford ( the modern substitute for the junk wagon). And each of us will be trying to hide from the others his pang of homesickness, for with that chair will vanish our "Once Upon a Time "
Wttbtntbe ~anctuarp
MAY G. RUDD
He was a devoted Catholic. Ever since he could remember he had been brought to the sanctuary in order that his thoughts might be lifted from the things of this world to those of eternity. He loved the immense cathedral with its heavenly likenesses keeping silent watch over the weary souls who came there for a brief period of respite each clay. He found the rest and separation from the day's hardships which he needed to enable him to battle with life's problems. All of the images seemed to smile down upon him, blessing him at the same time.
One evening about the hour of sunset, through the fine, drizzling rain he was making his way across the main street of the great metropolis of Mexico City toward the cathedral. Wearied in mind and body, and at the thought of the rest awaiting him, he unconsciously quickened his pace. Then, of a sudden, he was aware of being in imminent danger, and glancing around saw number onrushing vehicles and horses from which he was certain he could never escape. There was no time for deliberation, and, summoning almost superhuman courage, he closed his eyes and dashed obliquely in front of them all. He staggered, unnoticed, into the protecting sanctuary and almost flung himself at the feet of La Virgen Maria. After a brief, silent moment he raised his eyes to her smiling face and murmured profuse words of thanksgiving for her infinite love and protection over him. Stretching forth his arms to his beloved Madre de Dios, he made a holy promise which was soon to be fulfilled. Never was there, nor has there ever been a promise more binding or one which has been so often desecrated.
He was the saintliest of all the "padres," though the youngest. Strange to say, from him the rest learned many lessons. They watched his actions closely and marvelled at his perfect satisfac-
fRE MESSENGER
tion, contentment and devotion with which he performed his priestly duties.
"How his robes will become him," they would say as they saw him here and there, ministering to the wretched souls who came to him in distress.
The time for his ordination was drawing near and he was much in the spirit of prayer. He would withdraw into solitude, spending hours at a time exulting in the coming event. He realized the fact that he would be renouncing all human relationships and that he could never have the love of a woman. "But," he thought, "how can the earthly love of a fickle woman compare with being in the service of God, whose love is eternal?"
One day he stood out in the main body of the cathedral and noticed a number of figures bent over in prayer. One of these drew his attention, for some reason more so than the others, though why he could not have told except that he imagined it to be a young girl. Suddenly, as if by the power of his magnetic gaze, the girl, for it was indeed such, raised her eyes and looked into his face. Her sad countenance first aroused a feeling of compassion in him, but soon this feeling changed into one the like of which he had never experienced. After a brief moment he dropped his eyes abashed, ashamed at what he had allowed himself to do. Every day at the same time the girl came, and he, standing in some obscure recess, watched her, unable to resist the temptation.
Days passed, bringing ever closer his ordination, for which he now discovered himself not so eager. He thought about it most of the time and tried to make himself think about it, as he formerly did, but somehow this was not now possible. He could not exactly analyze his feelings. He was restless and rather fearful of the coming event. He tried to recall the attitude he had taken toward his ordination just three days previously, and was amazed at finding himself in his present plight. Something had come into his life which was even more powerful than his desire to become an ordained priest in the great Mother Church. His thoughts continually reverted to the sad, yet appealingly beautiful face of the _girl he had seen so often in the past few days. He could not
forget her. Was she the cause of his unsettled state of mind? What was this which had so suddenly awakened in his heart in regard to her ? He did not like to think that he was lowering himself so far as to fall in love with a common woman of the world. The very thought of it frightened him and he attempted to dismiss the idea from his mind. This, however, was not easily done.
One day, as he sat in his private apartment buried in thought, he ~was startled by a knock at the door. Springing from his chair, he stood a few seconds to calm himself, at last politely calling, "Pase Ud !" The door opened quietly and the prelate whom he had learned almost to worship, walked in. He had a benign smile on his mobile features as he embraced his younger brother.
"How glad I am, my son, that within less time than a week you will be safely bound into our noble order by chains which no earthly hands can ever break," he told him. "My heart rejoices with you."
The younger man recoiled nervously and dared not look into his superior 's face. Then, like a flash, the thought went through his mind that the chains which he himself was attempting to forge were already being torn away from him by earthly, human hands; hands which had at once fascinated and repelled him as being so apart from the lot he had himself chosen. The prelate looked at him in surprise which deepened into consternation, as he gently sought to discover the cause for the young man's apparent agitation. "I have had a nervous affection of late," pleaded the youth, much embarrassed.
"Mingle not too much with the common people," the other admonished. "Keep in close communion with Goel, and you will have nothing further to fear." The prelate turned and went out, closing the door softly. For a moment he stood outside the closed door with a perplexed frown on his face, then, as if dismissing a passing thought which had troubled him, went about his duties once agam.
On the following clay the young priest stood near the entrance of the sanctuary blessing all who passed his way , tired women
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with babes in their arms, little boys and girls, old and young men. They all knew and loved him.
People continued to pass and he noticed especially, among a group, a figure clad in black. She approached him and clasped his hand as the others had done. His heart beat faster and then he realized that it was she whom he had watched so of ten. Her dark, sad eyes looked up at him, portraying the trouble and anxiety in her heart. She kissed his hand in the ordinary reverential manner , and as she left he heard her sigh deeply.
At the close of day, when solitude again surrounded him, he thought over the day's happenings. He recalled the emotion awakened in him at the kiss imprinted on his hand by her soft lips. He could not have felt like that had he not loved her. Yes , he could not deceive himself any longer. It hurt him the more to think of it, for he knew it was the truth. He was ashamed of himself, ashamed to think of the sacred promise which he had desecrated. Could he even be pure again in the eyes of God? Of one thing he was certain; he could not keep on a s he had been going. There were two things between which he must soon choose. He must either trans£ er to another church and blot out the memory of this lovely girl and live a lonely, dejected life, or he must make her his and have the curse of his once, so deeply beloved church upon him. On and on he thought until, exhausted, he fell asleep.
He awoke when the first rays of the risen sun streamed in the tiny window. As his senses grew clearer he became worried. He was aware of some coming event which would bring him disaster one way or another. He remembered then that his ordination would take place on the morrow. Hurriedly he prepared himself for the day's duties and went out into the vast expanse of the cathedral. The day wore on slowly, and he became extremely nervous. His haggard face caused much whispering among the people as they came and went. Late in the afternoon he was standing near the doorway as the girl entered. She, with bowed head, walked slowly up to him. He turned with a start and would have clasped her to him, had there not been onlookers. A few words passed between them and she was gone.
Night crept up and found him again alone in his apartment. He was well nigh desperate. He knew of the girl's love for him and was all too sure of his for her. He battled with himself for long hours, and at last comforted himself with these musings : Were he to desert the church and marry this girl, death would separate him from her, for she could not follow, but were he to remain true to his vow , death would be but the bridge across which he would reach the goal whither he had been journeying for many years.
His musings were suddenly interrupted by the faint echo of a sob. Startled and bewildered, he knew not what to do. Seizing a lighted candle, he hastened out into the blackness of the sanctuary. Excitedly he looked as best he could and at last found a s mall, black figure, shaking with sobs , crouched before an image of Le Madre de Dios. He knew it to be her whom he loved and, after a brief moment, he had her clasped in his strong arms in a passionate embrace, hastening with her toward his secret exit. There was a brief struggle in the doorway. The girl loosed herself from him, and even as she did so, a huge mass of stone fell and crushed him. She stumbled over the heaps of crumpled rock and fled, terror-stricken , out into the night.
Yan <l&p~ttr~tttu
MARGARET HARLAN
This is but another story of the unfathomable, changing mind of woman and the inexplicable blind luck of a man. It began an evening after Art School as the three of us, Amie, Harris and I, stood talking in the hallway outside the life class-room.
Amie Perrault was the woman with the unfathomable mind, a rather remarkable person, small, a typical French girl, with a manner quick and compact as a kitten's dark eyes which sparkled with and a tendency to poke fun at everything and everybody. Clothes were her hobby, clever clothes, extreme yet becoming, with a cut and a style which no one else could have worn half so well. She came from France in 1917, when the American soldier she married there sent her to his people. When news of his death arrived, she left his home in the small Southern town, and started for New York. In a shop on the Avenue, she found a job painting lamp shades. She had studied art in Paris, and now found time, in the evenings and on Saturdays, to continue her course.
I, too, was a newcomer at the school, new and green, from Ohio, with only an ambition to illustrate. So we found ourselves seated together in the same costume design class, and being two lone girls among so many strangers, attracted each other from the beginning. Her broken speech and foreign way fulfilled my small town idea of the artistic atmosphere I had thought to find in New York, and in which I had been not a little disappointed. Then, as I began to understand that the temperamental type is not the true student, that flowing ties and smocks are not the sign of ability, I admired the real Amie. Her work was very clever and original, but she did not seem to enjoy it thoroughly, and if there had been anything left of the French farm where she had grown up, I think she would have gone back to it. Together we kept a small apartment, near enough to the village to be correct, and far enough away not to be too expensive.
Harris was from Maine, a hard working, easy spending fellow, always broke, whose only accomplishment was that he could feign a fit which would make almost anyone think it real.
Standing there in the hallway, we discussed the only thing of interest which has happened at the studio during the week - the coming of Michael Van Osterloo.
The first time we saw him was on the rainy afternoon of a midwinter clay. His was a dramatic entrance upon the quiet stage of the studio room. The class drooped sleepily in their seats, their pencils making soft switches across the sketch pads. Across the room from me, Amie, seated against the wall on a high tool, yawned in disgust at the model. He was an unusually poor model, a sort of corpulent business man whom we had tried to sketch all afternoon in the poses of a young Greek god Now he was seated in a lifeless attitude, his arm limp across the back of the chair. Now and then he yawned and stirred restlessly, shifting the pose slightly, an act which would not have been tolerated had the class been less tired. Even the professor was weary and loath to change his places of criticism from student to student in his usual interested manner. The windows, closed for the model's sake, made the room breathless and hot. Harris had stopped his drawing and was standing at the window watching the street below.
Suddenly the door opened noisily. There stood one of the biggest men I have ever seen, tall to towering, raw-boned, a golden haired, ruddy, boy-faced Swede. In his huge fist he grasped a pencil, and under his arm he held a spotless new drawing board and outfit. He was so out of place, so utterly unartistic among those pace-faced sons of the paint pot, that the whole class gasped as he walked to the back of the room, sat clown, and went methodically to work.
Through the following clays he worked early and late, paying· little attention to anyone. And for those beginning clays we refrained from looking at his drawings or watching his work over his shoulder. Not that we hadn't the curiosity to see what drawings of graceful line his big fist was capable of producing, but it is the unwritten law of respect to the newcomer that he be given an unwatched start.
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Then in that late afternoon as we stood there talking, in the hallway, Harris brought us the story of Mike. "I asked Prof. Granger about him," he said. "Lower your eyes and kowtow to him, for the pink-faced duffer is none less than the only son of a big wheat farmer out in Dakota, who if he isn't a millionaire, is mighty close to it. The boy has left his sheltering home - soft lap of luxury and all the rest - to answer the call of art which has long slumbered in his breast. Has some idea that he is elected to scatter paint instead of seeds."
"Ah-the big, pink-faced duffer, as you call him, he has no brains," said Amie.
Then we went down the elevator and into the street, past the little restaurant on the corner, a place famous for its sea food. It was the enticing odor which drifted through the door that made Harris say, "Shades of my Maine ancestors, what is it my mind's eye sees and my stomach hungereth after? A steaming bowl of milky liquid. And in it float nebulous hunks, divine food. Unappreciative bits of humanity, it is an oyster stew.'' He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out one lone quarter. "Broke," he said as he looked sadly at it.
"I'm sorry," I said, "but I'm not a "free lance artist" and tomorrow's pay day."
Amie did a fancy skip in a manner undignified for Broadway. Her eyes became deep pools of mischief. "Is it," she said, "that you want an oyster stew ? Then I shall provide you one tonight at my house." As we parted at the tube station, she whispered to Harris, "Are you very sure that the big, red-faced Swede, he has much money?"
"It must be," he answered. "I got it straight from Granger." "Then," she said, "bring him to my house at nine."
\Vhen we reached our rooms Amie went to work immediately on a lamp shade and refused to answer any questions about the evening's plans. At eight-thirty she rose, pt1t away her paints, stood in the middle of the floor and regarded our small living room with the little puckered frown she always wore when she was planning to repaint the furniture, change the color scheme or otherwise disrupt the settled order of things. I gently reminded
her that we had but a half loaf of bread, that the morning's milk had soured, and that we hadn't a thing in the house which even resembled an oyster. Disregarding my suggestion, she pulled the table out from the wall and drew four chairs to it. Then she went through all of our old magazines until she found the picture o{ a Fresh Air Home, which she cut out and . pasted over the glass of one of our prized Maxfield Parrish hanging squarely behind the table.
The stage seemed set for the entrance of the stew. I knew Harris would have little trouble in getting Van Osterloo to come. 1-1e would hunt him up in his rooms and find him eager for company.
At nine they were there. And the big man was greeted in Amie's best manner, which was charming. She seated us at the table. placing Mike so that he sat across from Harris and faced the Fresh Air picture. vVaiting a cue from Amie we talked on, of the weather, of the new exhibit at the Macbeth Galleries, of a hundred different things, in which conversation Van Osterloo took little part, but was eagerly interested.
Then Harris asked Amie the meaning of such an outrage on her walls. Her face lighted with enthusiasm. "That," she said, "is my newest love, my latest bobby , the thing superb which claims the mo st of my care. I shall tell you of it. Ah, :Yionsieur Mike," ( ancl her eyes were the essence of conquetry as she looked at him), "you will loYe it. I can see that in the kindne ss of your eyes. Amo ng these heartles s artists, you will understand." Then she gave us a lecture, illustrated with the graphic desc ript ions of her vivid imagination , of the home. of the children. and most clearly , of their financial need.
It was plain that Van Osterloo wa s fast falling victim to her cha rms. that she hacl him completely ingulfed in the magical lure of her two bright eyes. She ended the recital with a plea for our financial support. "I know," she said, "that Harris, he is broke. Perhaps he will give me his promise. But you, is it that you are broke, too, Monsieur Mike?" She ended with a gesture so sweet and a glance so appealing that Van Osterloo reached in his
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pocket and handed her a five dollar bill. Amie leaned towards Harris and whispered something in his ear.
Then across the table from Mike, Harris began to act strange ly. His arms stiffened against his sides, his body became rigid and jerked spasmodically, his eyes fastened with a glassy stare upon Van Osterloo, while a line of white foam appeared around his mouth. It was such a horrible sight that, had it not been an old parlor trick of Harris', I would have been startled Mike seemed unable to decide what should be clone With almost terror in his eyes he looked at Amie, who talked on in perfect unconcern. Following her lead, I acted as though nothing had happened. Mike moved uneasily in his seat, while the eyes of the man opposite rolled wildly and his face became grotesquely terrifying Suddenly in a writhing spasm be lurched across the table and shot out his hand towards Van Osterloo. It was too much. With a look of horror the big man sprang from his chair and rushed from the room.
Amie jumped to her feet, waving the bill above her head. "\i\Thile I make the milk to boil," she cried, "Monsieur Harris, you go to get five dollars of oysters and things good to eat, in the name of Mike Van Oyster Stew."
* * * * * *
After that he was to us always Van Oyster Stew. We soon found that his work was mechanical and rather dull, but he worked patiently and earnestly. And as we knew that it is often the unbrilliant plodding student who at last comes to himself in an original style, we expected that Mike would come out winning. As the weeks went by we found ourselves liking the big man more and more, admiring him for his spirit, if not for the quality of his work- all except Amie. To her he seemed no more than a joke. She laughed at his every attempt, scorned his enthusiasm and diligence, made fun of his dull, heavy drawings behind hisback and before him. Mike took her mockery with a gentle dignity which enraged her. I think she began to hate him because he would not answer her taunts, but treated her always with a calm courtesy. It would never have occurred to her that the Fresh Air Home inveiglment had been in any way wrong. Ac- ·
cording to her mode, she had matched her wit against that of a more fortunate over-supplied human and won, in a sort of feminine Robin Hood manner.
At last we began to wish that she would leave him alone. True she made fun of everything and everybody, but her wit turned against him was a bit more biting and cruel. It must have hurt him more than he let us believe. We began to wish that the worm would turn and do something at which Amie could not laugh, that she might be properly squelched by work unquestionably good. 'vVe hoped for a masterpiece; began to expect it. And all of us. longed to see Van Oyster Stew retrieve himself.
Then, as the winter passed, came the spring exhibit, a week off. The classes worked feverishly, finishing up their exhibit pieces. There was to be a prize offered on a landscape for which Mike confided to me that he was trying. He had been working on it in his rooms and was going to bring it soon to the studio to finish it up. My mind went instantly to the masterpiece. I longed to see Amie's face when Mike captured the prize.
A few days before the exhibit he brought it. With great impatience I watched him untie his portfolio. Then my hopes vanished It was a medium-sized oil sketch of a substantial white farm house, a durable solid barn, and a row of sturdy poplar trees, utterly unprize-taking. For a real estate poster it might have done, but for a landscape it was impossible. What a good time Amie would have over it. I could almost hear her say, "And l\tfonsieur Mike, is it dough that the house is made of?"
Then I saw her standing beside me looking at the sketch, but with an expression which I had never seen on her face before. "Is this the farm of which you come, Monsieur Mike?" she said. "Is there a cow and perhaps some chickens? And the house, is it that big?"
The face of the big man lighted with interest. "Yes," he said, "there's a bunch of cows , about two hundred when I left, and a whole flock of chickens. The house is a fairly good sized one, and the barn, too. The wheat fields stretch as far as you can see. And we have an orchard of about a hundred apple trees and a few peach. Do you come from a farm Miss Amie?"
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Her eyes widened. "Ah yes," she said, "but it is so different from yours ; so much the smaller. There were a cow and some chickens, and a peach tree trimmed against the wall. But it went poof! - all in one little clay. And now there is nothing but great holes where the house was."
Through the next days Amie was scarcely herself. She was cross; she had a perplexed frown on her pretty forehead, and many times during the day I saw her gazing into space, her pencil unmoved, resting on her unfinished drawing. We chided her about it. "Often one is made cross," she answered, "one cannot always keep patience with some people. A great chance to do a beautiful thing has gone from me. Last week a woman of great wealth came to me with an order for the big shade for her librar y. The shade I planned was beautiful. It was the shade possible for the library of one of money-quiet, i11soft colors, a Spanish mission, grey against an evening sky. It was finished in the mind - ah, what a shade! Then the woman came to me radiant with an original plan of her own. And it was to be a reel and lavender parr ot on an old green background. Reel and lavender parrot - hah ! Is that not enough to make o ne cross?"
"Enough for anyone else , but not for you." Harris told her.
A week passed with Arnie in this mood. Then late one afternoon as I was doing the last ink lines on a tooth-paste poster, I looked up to find the room empty save for two, Mike in the corner by the window, bent close over his work, and Amie a few seats ahead of me. I glanced at the clock, su rpri sed to find 1t so late. Then I wondered what was keeping Amie. She was not working. just sitting there, looking at that idiotic white farm of Van Oyster Stew's hanging on the wall in front of her.
Then she took her powder box from her pocket. powdered her small upturned nose and her firmly pointed chin, patted some hair down on her forehead, pushed it back, then patted it clown again. Then she rose and walked toward M ik e. She didn't even see me, but held her head high. 'vVas she going to tease him again , I wondered? Somehow I wished that she would leave him alone. I hated to see him made fun of at all times. Nevertheless, I slipped across the room and into a seat near them to hear what she would
say this time. Neither of them noticed me sitting there, all unsuspecting of what would follow.
Amie stood in front of him, and resting her hands on the desk, leaned over him. "Monsieur Mike," she said, "listen to me. You hate it as I hate it, this art stuff. It is all wrong, nonsense -the tall buildings and the stuffy trains, and the too many people . It is not the place where you belong, Monsieur Mike . You waste your time here as I do . Your heart is out in your big fields. To make things grow -ah, that is the real way of living. You will marry me. And we shall go to the white farm of your picture , Monsieur Mike?"
m'.be1La~t~bening
W. L. MAHANEY, JR.
Every evening, before Lisa, who was a kitchen-girl, had to help the cook with dinner, Joe met her on the drive and they walked up along the river together. He had found her there the first day of his shore leave, and had come back every afternoon since then at the same time for five weeks. The week just past had been a cold sudden one with gusts of wind and rain, but this had not kept either of them away; for it was his final week on the shore.
This was the last evening of all, which meant that: it was to be their last walk. Joe knew Lisa would come. A bad day, though, for a walk-raw and bitter with a thin freezing rain, worse even than yesterday; and he had begged her not to come and "catch her death o' cold"; she wasn't very strong, and was already sneezing. But the idea of her staying away from their last walk had seemed very funny to Lisa, and she had laughed him to shame.
He saw her when she was still a long way off -a thin wisp of a girl, with her shabby coat -collar buttoned up close under her sharp little chin. When they met she smiled and suddenly coughed.
"You gotta go home, Lisa," he said anxiously, "you're sick!"
She shook her head, and smiled again; and slipped her arm in his, nestling her knuckly little hand against his sleeve to keep it warm.
The river was steely-grey, pricked with fine icy points of rain; and the winding sweep of the drive was stately and shining wet. A few cars slid by, and a bus, leaving a dull track on the wet glitter. No one else was out in the dismal afternoon; they walked and walked and walked, in a world all to themselves.
They did not seem to have anything to say to each other. A barrier of silence always rose between them, and now, on their walk, it was more than ever impenetrable; Lisa never seemed to walk to talk; she just walked along, clinging close to Joe, turning her head ev ery now and then to smile up at him. Joe was dizzy
with things to say, but the thought of her nearness kept him speechless, and made him feel very clumsy and inadequate.
It was more so than ever today; Joe had never thought of Lisa as being beautiful, but she seemed to have taken on a strange loveliness overnight. She was about seventeen, slight as a shadow; there was usually a thin, half-starved look about her face, but today it had given way to a vividness of color which was new and exciting to Joe. Her black eyes burned and glittered like bright little "Furies," and her cheeks were purplish-red in two little spots . The rest of her face, but for thin scarlet lips, was white, almost paled like skimmed milk; and her short jet-black hair was plastered wetly against her head, flat, curved, and tangled. He had never seen her so beautiful; she was dazzling; different from ordinary girls. Her face was like a deftly painted mask.
He had a sudden desire to make her talk, just to see if she could, for he felt somehow that this was not the same Lisa at all.
"Orful bad bay," he offered, stammeringly, "Easternly windoff the ocean - kind of chilly -you cold?"
There were long pauses for her to reply, but she only smiled, and at the question shook her head.
"Gotta go 'way to-morrer - goin' to Liverpool-FranceItaly-wisht you was goin' along- I'll sure miss you -are you sorry I'm goin', Lisa?"
She caught his arm suddenly, and squeezed it with both her hands.
"Lisa, tell me you're sorry- Lisa, tell me- I b'lieve you're glad."
He was purposely cruel, provoked at her silence, stung that his first words approaching love were le£t unanswered.
"Yes -you're glad - I mighta known it - glad I gotta goyou're glad -I mighta known it."
She gave a sudden little gasp; her fingers dug sharply into his arm in the intensity of her clutch. He looked down into her face. The cold was changing the rich color of her cheeks to a bluish pallor, and her eyes were wide and staring. She trembled against him, breathlessly.
"Why, Lisa! Darlin' ! I didn ' t know you felt like that -I'm sorry-'scuse me -will you? I'm just a plumb fool. And you're really all that sorry. You cute little thing. I won't ever forget you. Don't you pass me up for nobody else, neither! Tell you what I'll do; I'll write you a letter."
He grew lordly with the realization that this girl loved him so much. She pressed against him in satisfaction, smiling up at him, but still tremulous. On the way back, however, silence fell over them again; but Joe felt masterful, protective, possessive. When he left her he kissed her for the first time in hi s life. Her lips were icy cold, but strangely sweet and thrilling. They clung to his. This was her only good-bye. Joe went away feeling very cheerful and even a bit warm. That night, prompted by a vague oppressive dread and by the vivid memory of wet black hair on blue-white skin, Joe found a telephone station and called up the house where Lisa worked. "Lisa?" said the woman on the other end. "Oh -Lisa! You mean the kitchen girl! Well, she had such a fever last night we sent her home and -she died, early this morning."
THE MES SEN GER
A
Proelium
WITH A Pa.nsophic Chronicle FROM THE LATIN OF ADRIA.NUS MINOR
CLARKE
Tra n slated By A . B.
PROELIUM
At this time, there is comparatively little known of Aclrianus Minor, an Italian monk living circa 1146-1175, and even less of his writings. That he was a copyist and scribe of no small ability may be verified by reference to the history of Monte Cassino See Chron. M onast. 111asiniensis, in l\,f uratori, Script. Rer. Ital. IV., and Dautier, Monasteres Benedictus d' Italie.
Furthermore, Frate Alberico of Monte Cassino, in a letter to Giovanni Bartolini asserts that Adrianus, while even as young as twenty-four years, was an ardent student of church and profane learning; but especially in the former was he so zealously interested and studious that the odour of sanctity was upon him; and even the oldest of the celebates looked with reprehensible envy upon the sternness of his virtues. But the ecclesiastical career of the young monk was disrupted, for it appears that the youth became enamoured of a young peasant girl whose great beauty was obviously made by the devil to appear even more ravishing to Fra Adriano. The insidious wiles of this maid were such that the young monk forgot the rewards in store for him in Paradise after his labors in the writing of the holy records, and he sunk to penning love verses in the vulgar language of the streets. He ended by deserting the monastery and died of the black plague in Noverino about the year 1175. It is not known who the peasant girl was, or whether Adriano ever married her.
The following Chronicle is taken from one of seven manuscripts written by Adrian us Minor ( so he inscribes himself), and sent by Guido da Calboli to the Magliabecchiana Library at Florence. See Chronica. Lib. IX. cap 136. Tr. in Renalli, Florentine History, Book 7, Ch. 22.
THE CHRONICLE
Concerning the Grand-Master of Rhetoric
It happened that in those days, Giannozzo da Imola was GrandMaster of Rhetoric in the University of Tuscany, and great was his erudition. Truly there was no scholar equal to him in the renown* of his intelligence and brilliant achievements in the study of the classics and the lives of the Christian saints.
The Grand-Master of Rhetoric was also reputed very young to be so great a scholar, and that he was named Doctor llluminatus; for in all, his number of years was but thirty-seven, and many of these had been spent in the study of the arts and sciences. But it remained that in rhetoric Messer Giannozzo was without equal for knowledge and assiduity of research. But he was not beautiful to look upon. For, with many years of sitting down, and having to do at no time any arduous toil, Messer Giannozzo had become grievously bloated and fat: so that it was with effort that he moved his body from place to place about the rooms and in and out of the chairs of the University, such was the greatness of his girth and thighs. His face was large with small eyes and a sharp nose, and he lisped in a high voice when he spoke.
Of Seven Young Students and What They Sought
Now it is further reported that there came to the University of Tuscany seven young students from various regions of Italy and beyond, - all seeking to study the classics and to learn therefrom the secret of life and the knowledge of the future. Young they were and much given to philosophizing about the manifold paradoxes of this world; but, alas, very careless were they -with the exception of only one - concerning preparation for the salvation of their souls unto immortal life. Mostly carefree and gay they
* The problem here seems to be in the translation of the word celebritate or celeritate. The middle of the word is badly blurred, and it is difficult to know just what is meant. I have translated according to the former, because of the context. Graust, however, believes the ambiguous word to be celeritate. Tr.
THE MESSENGER
were, looking for dangerous experiences and sensuous pleasures, never failing to seek out maidens whom they might cajole endlessly with their wit and fine talk.
These seven young men were similar in youth alone. For Marcello Malaspina was stern and reserved, pondering deeply upon all problems, imitating the ancient masters of letters and wishing to write concerning the great verities of this life. But Nino de Visconti of Pisa, having more experience, was impetuous and quick to learn. He sought to be a great teacher and student of fine literature; in his heart he loved money and saw a means of capitalizing all his abilities. Ghino d'Arezzo, a short, unkempt man with drooping mouth, long, pointed nose and ragged teeth, was a student of theology and the canons of the Church. He disliked secretly the flippancy of his comrades, and considered Nino alone to be steady in his habits and promising in his studies. Farese Donati was a student of law, and in stentorian voice declaimed the well chosen words of ancient orators. And for Ghino, Farese was a dissolute wastrel who could come to no good end; and yet Nino was wont to attribute the waywardness of the law student to the latter's extreme youth, which was not untrue. Bertoldo Orsini was from the South, where the long lan guorous clays had breathed into his spirit their tropic ease and sluggishness. He followed the classics because he loved the ancient world and sought to spend his life in philosophy and study of letters, since he was wealthy and could buy whatever he desired. Anaud de Beneil was from France, exiled while still so young for voicing unorthodox discussions concerning the Church. He was dark and plump with eyes wide apart and cheeks round and full. He did not love the classics, except that they were distantly interesting; he prided himself on the fact that at nineteen he had conducted an important embassy to the King of Naples, and sought to make the common language of daily speech that of all great literature. He espoused the latest mode of changing fashion in dress and speech and lost no chance to cast unlovely reflection upon the names and characters of the Saints in our Holy Church. Finally, there was Riccardo Fanza, blonde and blue-eyed, for there was the blood of fair Gothic ancestry in his veins; and he knew how to pen pretty son-
nets, to make knife play with his enemies, and to upset a girl, and this was knowledge sufficient for his state in life, Riccardo thought. He did not love the ponderous beauty and slothfulness of the classics, but rather, like Anaud, believed the vulgar Italian language to be worthy of genius; and he took it that the GrandMaster of Rhetoric would, by great display of scholarship, make it possible for him [Riccardo] to write prettier sonnets, having few enemies, and thereupon to ensure his opportunity for teasing more women.
Wherein the Seven Students Are Disappointed
Thus these seven students, different except that they were young, sat under the Grand-Master of Rhetoric, who taught them according to his wisdom and learning. But after a time, the students became dissatisfied, for Messer Giannozzo was too much ensconced with the words and weighty interference from the classics and too little worried over the books themselves.
It was Marcello who first complained, and he to Riccardo , whom he greatly admired.
"Are we to study about the foolish questions of words and paragraph s; of ancient customs and opinions, my Riccardo; and not the great characters and ideals of the poet Homer?"
"Alas," said Riccardo, "the Grand-Master of Rhetoric has mistaken us for dusty old men, scholars, who pore over ancient volumes and never test the softness of a maiden's lips. For me, I cannot keep my mind upon his words, for did not these men who wrote these classics love and fight, and not waste their youth in gloomy controversy? Did they not rather anger their masters with being young and irresponsive ?"
"You are right, Riccardo," made answer Marcello, "literature is in all probability the result of woman's influence on masculine youth. It has never occurred to me in just that light before."
"Surely ," said Riccardo, finding that he had come upon a topic very suitable to his discoursing, "it was mainly the inspiration of some woman which made Homer write his Iliad and Oydssey. For Helen was doubtless worth the writing of epics. And I believe
it is worthier to write sonnets to my lady than to study theology and the sciences. The records of the holy Thebaid have not the interest for me as the verses of Sappho. No, Marcello, the Grand-Master of Rhetoric has passed beyond his youthful days, and consequently forgets the thrill of a stolen kiss, or a meeting at midnight beneath a vine-clad balcony. He discourses too much on matters that do not count; on reasons, motives, objects, influences, - generalizations which have nothing to do with literature and are rather the tools of philosophers and scientists when they are pedants."
Marcello was greatly worried, because he, too, saw the ineffectuality of the Grand-Master's teaching, and he sought to find some other way by which to learn the secret of life and the knowledge of the future.
"Riccardo;" he said, "I believe you are right. There is no sound reason why we should repudiate our youth in order to know the secret of life. Let us on the morrow ask the Grand-Master of Rhetoric in which lies our desire: youthful love or in the transcription and discussion of schol i a upon great literature."
Which Treats of a Question and Its Answer
The morrow came and the students assembled before Messer Giannozzo. Riccardo was inattentively dreaming of a plump, brown-skinned little wench who had jilted him for an apothecary's clerk on the evening before. The laughter in his blue eyes had become an angry glower ; he ceaselessly cleaned the nails on his left hand with that on the forefinger of his right; and thus the handsome young Italian was scheming how to gain again the caresses of the beauty who preferred the odour of asafoetida and aloes to the music of his verses. Marcello was nervous and ill-atease. The other five students stolidly and wearily awaited the Master to begin.
"Sir," spoke Marcello to the Grand-Master, "I should like to ask a question. After this length of study under y our learned counsel, I am constrained to believe that the secret of life is not to be found in yellow manuscripts or commentators ' glo sses, but
rather in the kisses and chattering of young lovers. My friend, Riccardo Fanza, there, and I have wondered, Sir, if we are not casting our aim in the wrong direction. What advice do you give us?"
The Grand-~Iaster of Rhetoric, sunk awkwardly in his chair, was to all appearances ill-pleased with the question.
"Y oang men," said be with effort costing him much use of breath, "if you seek to know !if e and its secrets, you must delve into philosophy and metaphysics; you must, as I have done, read all the classics and determine their sources and the way in which they were written; you must give up this boyish running after girls; you must devote your energies to deeper, more profound subjects -for in Aristotle and Thucydides, Homer and Virgjl, Plato and Euripides, lies the secret of life, and not in the eyes of pretty women. For women are destructive, and philosophy lifegiving."
Riccardo frowned menacingly at the Grand-Master.
"Sir," he said with a sharp ring in his voice, "was not Homer inspired by youthful love and Virgil not write of Dido's cruel fate? l\,fust I forget that I am young, and believe that my enthusiasm is unworthy of my desire to know the secret of life; that it is worthier to know the Greek alphabet than the fragrance of my sweetheart's hair; that the ponderous generalizings of pedants mouthed in nasal monotones are more learned than the lilting music of Neila's voice? Sir, I. Riccardo Fanza, ask you this: am I to believe that ancient rules for writing will tell me how to win a stubborn girl or verbose conjecture concerning pro-,fo und motives in Homer's mind aid me in making my own verses better?"
And the Grand-:.\1aster of Rhetoric, who had been long enough married to be no little disappointed in his wife, was very angry with Riccardo Fanza, and his fat face became suffused with deep blushes of rage.
"Young man, you are a disgrace to the age in which you live! To occupy your time in writing silly love verses in the vile language of the meat shops, and to believe that love is anything but folly, are both observations unbecoming to a scholar which I
THE MESSENGER
hope to make of you. I have tried to show you that the men in whom lies the knowledge of all things, are learned beyond all records. I have but to make reference to Francis of Mayence who, because of his wisdom and rare sapience, is called M agister Acutus Abstractionuni; and to William of Ockam, known as Doctor lnvincibilis, Singularis et Venerabilis. Emulate these men if you would know the secret of life and the knowledge of the future. And you, Master Riccardo, do you hereinafter forget your childish pranks and learn to study like a man."
"But," answered Riccardo. his blue eyes flashing. "I do not want to be a scholar. I care not for your Doctors and }.,f agister s with adjectives. I prefer to follow after Beato Benedetti and Guittone d'Arezzo, who now are spinning immortal verses. But I wish, above all things, to know the secret of life and how to forecast the future, and I do not believe yours is the way."
Marcello nodded approval. Anaud smiled his sanction and the other students silently listened.
"Master Riccardo," and the Grand-Master spoke with open bitterness, "are you not aware that your opposition to the methods of scholarship is rustic and provincial; that you are arguing like the ground-lice in a damp cellar who think the rest of the world is uninhabitable because it does not suit them? You will learn some day to understand the meaning of life by no other way than the study and research into the masterpieces of the ancients."
"Sir," interposed Marcello, "for the life of me I cannot see that aught is to be learned for our purpose from scholastic philosophy and its mouldering opinions. For grey-beards, well enough,but for young men, let them love instead."
The Grand-Master of Rhetoric puffed with the exertion of his denunciation.
"You are both young jackasses, and I am wasting -- "
Riccardo Fanza, by now , was so enangered that he rose from his sea~ and fr owned upon Messer Giannozzo.
"Sir," he spoke slowly as if in good command of his temper, "do not tempt me to quarrel, let it be enough that I am at great variance with you in your teaching, for I hold youth to be the spring of life and not hoary old age -and young love to be the
way by which I shall write immortal verses when you with wormeaten manuscripts and learned Doctors shall have crumbled into white and loathsome dust. I may be rustic in my opposition, but I am proud of my lack of the conceit of age which you have shown here this day. Know that I shall from here on be engaged in using that which youth has given me and that I forever eschew the methods of infirm, tottering age. "
And with that speech, Riccardo motioned to Marcello, wh o rose and followed the former from the room. The other students , ,excepting Ghino, when they saw the wisdom of Riccardo, als o silently made exit. Ghino d'Arezzo alone remained -and he because the study of theology had quite taken away his youth .
Couceming the Outcome of Such Youthful Folly
The six students never returned to sit before the Grand-Maste r o f Rhet oric in the University of Tuscany.
Those of the great city of Florence, who were wont to talk, used to narrate * that Riccardo Fanza became a great poet, while Marcello Mala spina, living to be a worthy patron of letters, himself penned many a poignant jest or tale concerning the secret of life and the knowledge of the future, which he believed to lie in th e exuberance and careless d esiderati of youth, rather than in th e vo uchsafement and tutelage of our elders.
* Silv a in L ep icle, L ' Hi s toir e Litter a ir e d e Floren c e , Vol. IV , p. 361. ,(1780. )
THE ME.SSEN"GER ~oob
GEORGE R. FREEDLEY
Muted not es of a bell sounding in the next ·valley steal into my sanctuary silently. The velvety softness seems significant of for boding death, of death by beauty, by a favorite beailt31 , by the p •iercing anguish of a soul-wri11ging bell.
The melody 11mrniurs monotonousl · y, blurring endlessly.
The cool dear crysta .l of exquisite harmony should image beautiful tonal paintings and i wonder why it does not, but tortures subtly, and i am dismayed.
The melody murmurs monontously, blurring endless ly
I would bar the sound, but i am not able; i am in a maze of melody, in a daze, and i slowly sink , softly, silently sink, i sensuously sink into ob.livion.
The nielody 1nur111ursmonontously, blurring end lessly.
FARNHAM LAIDLAW
Nat Doyle, casual buck private, A. E. F., hob-nailed across the "Place de la Gare ," and unfastening the hooks of his tight, sweaty collar, and the two lowest buttons of his blouse, slouched onto a bench that faced the station. He pulled a metal mirror from his breast pocket and piece by piece viewed the reflection of his dusttanned face, rubbing off here and there great tracts of French soil with his wadded up khaki handkerchief. From the same pocket he produced a comb, and tried to make his so-called military hair-cut look like the slick pompador of which he had once been so proud. Then, locating his nail-file, he attacked hopelessly th ose short u g ly things whi ch be fore the war were accustomed to daily treatment with orange sticks and peroxide. The result did not satisfy him.
Across the wide square , that short gilt sign on the station sneered down at him "Brest." It had sneered like that for a month n ow and he was getting tired of it. An M. P. strode back and forth on the sheltered walk beneath the sign, apparently waiting fo r acti on . Down at hi s right, Doyle saw the usual hustle in the A . E. F. baggage room. Gobs and doughboys were piling all sorts of luggage onto trucks, preparatory to their last ride over the ro ads of France. Officers of all ranks were lined up in the effort t o get a glimpse o f their baggage before they left for America. A col onel hurried by. Doyle scrambled to his feet to snap up a salute, but the officer wa s past him, already aiming for the line near which he hoped to locate his four or five trunks.
From around the corn er at Nat's left appeared several giant t ruck s which roared by him, whirled about with a storm of dust a nd backed up t o the station walk. Doyle heard a train pull in over beyond th e squatty building -the end of the line. Almost th e end o f France for a bunch more Americans - yes, almost.
Out throu g h the " sortie" door poured many officers, weighed do wn by suit ca se s, mu sette bags, clothing rolls and chained German
THE MESSENGER
shepherd dogs. Into the trucks they piled, second lieutenants, first lieutenants, captains, and majors, and away they chugged toward camp.
"Huh," grunted Doyle, "officers come and officers go, but casuals stick in Brest forever." He turned in his seat, placed his arm over the back, and laying his head on his chevronless sleeve, gazed down over the hill to the harbor below. It looked to him as if there were plenty of ships there to get him and a few of his casual friends home. There was one perfectly good ship which he had seen the day he arrived-a month before. It was still there. Then there was another boat, larger than the rest. It had arrived two clays before, but the sailors had to have fourteen days' leave in Paris, so perhaps when they got back there would be room for him - that is, if there wasn't boiler trouble, and they had to wait a couple of weeks more.
Doyle was no great thinker. He didn't have much to think with, but he had worried over a few things in the army. He hated disorganizing organizations, for that had made him a casual. He hadn't been one during those Argonne days around Varennes and Monfaucon, but a wound and a base hospital can soon put a fellow kilometres away from his organization. He had sailed to, arrived at, and paraded through New York months ago, and now all the other guys were sporting "citz" clothes such as he wanted to hurry up· and wear again.
"\Vonder what's the style in neck-ties back home?'' he mused. "A fellow can't tell from these blue bloused, velvet hatted Brittany frogs," and he went off into a dream of pinch backs, soft felt hats, silk socks, and shiny silk shirts - then on into a reverie of dances, girls, music, late suppers, and his old job on the vaudeville circuit -then back to a nightmare of reveilles, mess-lines, inspections and fatigue details.
With a muttered "Damn," he swung around and looked up at the smoky gray clock on the station, and compared the time with the little radio affair on his wrist. It's four-thirty, and me with a six o'clock pass. I'll have to hustle if I get back for chow."
Winding down to the left, around several corners, he at last reached the long narrow street which mounted at a horrible incline
to the vast plateau where lay the camp. He passed other doughboys, those with late passes, coming down for the eveningpassed several cafes packed with Americans -passed gaudy shop windows where well-meaning soldiers gazed at red, purple, and yellow aprons, pillows and handkerchiefs.
"Aw, hell," said the dejected casual, plugging up the hill. "There's more time wasted here in the A. E. F. than there are beans in a mess kit. I remember once while we were resting beside the road up front, the old captain told us that three-fourths of the time in the army was just waiting. That's more than true. Why, I spend that much time just standing in line to get fed and paidwhen I do -or to get deloused . And there's scores of other lines. Now, without counting sleep, there's about eighteen hours in a day - we ' ll say sixteen , so it won't be too high. Three-fourths of sixteen is twelve -that's half a day. In a month I'd fool away fifteen days. Two million soldiers in the A. E. F. would loaf thirty million days every month. Let's see."
He stooped over and picked up a scrap of paper from the g utter, and found a stub of a pencil in his blouse pocket. He put down "thirty million divided by 360." "That makes -times eight, two eighty-eight -twelve over -bring down the zero -times three, hundred eight, and twelve over."
He figured it out carefully to the last zero, and finally came to the answer: "833,333 1/ 3 years -wasted in one month just by standing in line. Wowie !- just in one month. Now, I've been over here nearly two years, and so have a good share of the fellows: I can't figure any higher than that, but if I ever get out of this man's army, it's me who steers clear of this line proposition." He pocketed his pencil and paper, wiped his hot brow, and tried to whistle as he pulled up the hill.
Once at the top, he swung along the dusty road, heedless of the autos whizzing by in both directions. Before him stretched an ocean of khaki tents relieved here and there by a squalid headquarters building or a "Y" hut. Thousands of uniformed men ran about, hopefully bent on doing all the things they had to do before their ship came in.
Through the big gate, with its mocking "Welcome" sign, Doyle went, scuffling over the duck board walks. On one side of him a company was standing in single file -or rather sprawling in the dust in single file -waiting their turn at the delousing plant. A little farther along was another line just as long, waiting to get paid off.' Across the road at the "Y" hut, a line stretched out the side door. "Chocolate line at the canteen, I suppose," Doyle grunted, and hurried on . At a little building near one of the headquarters reached a long line of officers waiting to change their remaining francs into the money of God's country. Bang!down went the window in front of them. "Open tomorrow at nine," glared the sign. Doyle smiled.
Wherever he looked, the young casual could see lines of many sorts. Near the far end of the camp where many of his fellow unfortunates were stowed away, Nat dragged through another line of officers, which for at least two blocks wound with the duck board walks about groups of tents. This was the casual officers' mess line.
"Only first sitting, too/ he grinned, and thought of the 833,333 1/3 years that they were helping to waste that month through the process of waiting their turn.
Doyle hustled over to the first sergeant's tent, where he got in line with others of his detachment to check in with early passes.
"Class, eh?" someone was saying, "we pull out tomorrow just as soon as we march over to the Q. M. and get new clothing issued."
"Aw, gwan," doubted Nat.
"Straight goods, -the top just put me wise."
"Well, he's put me wise five times the last month, but we're still in the land of parley voos." Nat refused to believe.
"But it's the clear stuff this time."
From a tent nearby came a harmonizing agony of voices :
"Tired of hikes and hob-nailed shoes; Tired of Mademoiselles and bum French booze. Oh, there's no place like home-that's itI've got those homesickness blues."
"That reminds me, I hope I can get rid of my hob-nails."
"You'll be lucky if there's anything else left when your turn c01nes."
Mess call sounded. Doyle was just signing in. "Come and get it," shouted the fellows as they clicked over the duck board. Doyle hurried to his tent, grabbed his mess kitt and got at the end of the chow line, growling to the men about him, "Aw, fellehs, army life'· just one darn line after another!"
Nathaniel Doyle, an ex-casual buck private of a month, and an ex-A. E. Fer for a little longer than that, rolled over onto the other pillow and sent his hand out in a listless search for his exwrist watch which was ticking into his ear through that cotton padded mass of comfort beneath his head. Squinting down sleepily at the cheap time-piece which he pulled forth, he shoved it back with a half sigh which told that eleven o'clock was nearly time to get up. He'd try ten minutes more of this paradise.
Then ten minutes passed -twenty. Nat threw the bed clothes back, and sat up, looking at the mirrored stand not more than a yard away. Nearly everything in the room was within that distance from him. Unconsciously, his hand went up to caress his hair, which action told him that it was fast becoming ex-military, and taking on its wavy contour of former days.
Casting aside his pajamas, Nat proceeded to dress. There was his rather attractive silk shirt -some near-silk socks - his really smart double breasted coat and tight trousers and an indescribable neck-tie, all waiting for him on the chair beside the stand. One by one he put these on, lavishly applying water to face, brushes to hair, and file to finger nails.
"Kind o' wish civilians'd wear wrap puttees," he caught himself saying as he gazed down at his half-creased trousers, and adding, "Laundry bills alone fairly break a fellow. Didn't have to worry about such things in the army."
Once completely dressed, Doyle viewed himself proudly in the mirror, grabbed up his soft brown hat, and hurried down two flights of night black stairs out into the white light of the noon day.
THE MESSENGER
Nat walked along the side street leisurely. He had no reason to hurry. He could choose his own eating place now -that is within reason. No more chow lines for him. He turned into the busy street flooded with noon idlers. Thinking of a letter he should mail, he walked up the steps of the huge stone post office, where five minutes later he found himself standing at the end of a line before the A-E General Delivery.
One by one he watched those ahead of him asking for mail, and studied their faces as they turned with or without the letters they expected.
Then all at once Nat was peering through the square window at the spectacled man, but instead of giving his name he stepped out of line.
"Now, why the deuce did I get in that line?" he asked himself. "Guess I thought I was still in the army."
He was standing near the window smiling sheepishly at the silly thing he had done, when he noticed a young girl at the head of the line. She had been directly behind him. How anxiously she waited, this girl of about twenty, trimly but plainly dressed.
She was telling the man, "Yes, Marjorie Dexter."
"Dexter ?" The man grabbed a bunch of letters from a cubby hole -"Dale , Daniels, Davis, Debbs, Denny, Dewey, Dinsmore. Drake -no, Miss, nothing for you today."
"But there must be a letter, sir."
The man shook his head, and someone pushed her away from the window.
"What's the matter, kid?" Nat heard himself question as she passed, and immediately he wished he hadn't said it. The girl glanced his way with a scared look which told of a very proper f ear of strangers whom she dared not trust. Yet Nat would have spoken again, and in a more respectful manner if she had not hurried past him and out through the swinging doors into the crowd on the street.
"Now there's a little girl who needs looking after." Nat was scowling at the slowly revolving doors. "I'll wager she hasn't a friend · in the world-at least in the city. Wish she had let me speak to her." He followed hastily and gazed from the post-office
steps in all directions. He thought he saw her standing by a store window down the street, ran to catch up with her, discovered his mistake, knew it was useless to search further, and turned to find a suitable place to eat.
That evening about seven-thirty Nathianiel Doyle was hurrying along in the unholy glare of the street lights. Outside of a blazingly lighted show house, he pulled up suddenly. There by the gallery entrance was a long line of people eagerly waiting for the ticket office to open. Men and women, tired from a day's toil, wanted some little snatch of gayety at the lowest price possible -where they could laugh hollowly at the actions and quibs of a few professional vaudevillists, and imagine they were happy. Feeling in his pocket for a quarter and the necessary war tax, Nat stepped to the end of the line, counting those who were fortunate enough to get there ahead of him , and smiling to think of those who fell in behind.
"Well, I'll be -well, wouldn't that-well, of all the-I thought the army was the only place they ever lined up."
The window opened. Furiously the people scrambled for tickets and started up the endless spiral that led to that place where a cat can look at a king. With his bit of ticket, Nat leaped up the ladder-like stairs by threes, past those other trudging mortals less agile than he, till at last he came out onto that precipice that overlooked the pit of vacant seats below. Scurrying across to the center, he seated himself in the very front row.
"There," he sighed, "now for a little show." He glanced at his watch. "And only three-quarters of an hour to wait." He looked about him to the other benches which were rapidly filling, and beyond to the curtains and the wall. These were covered from lower floor to the gallery with a net work of trellissed flowers -artificial flowers which attempted to give a garden appearance to the theatre. It was a poor attempt.
"What a fine place to collect dust," he was thinking. In his survey of the house, Nat glanced down at someone wedged in beside him.
"Why, it's the little girl from the post office -the little -
THE MESSENGER
Marjorie," he gasped. "What on earth is she doing up here. This is no place for a young thing like her."
The girl had settled back on the hard seat to wait. Nat leaned toward her.
"Say, aren't you the girl who didn't get a letter at the post office this morning?" he began awkwardly.
Marjorie looked up at him in surprise. She evidently decided that he had the appearance of a gentleman, and lost some of her fear. Or was it that she was just lonesome?
Her answer snapped up at him like a cracked whip. "Yes, I am the girl you called 'kid' at the post office and how dared you?" Then she added, "but you're mistaken, for I did get my letter after all."
"But I heard the man say there was nothing at all for Miss Marjorie Dexter."
"Oh, but I went back again. I knew mother must have written -but how -how did you remember my name?"
Nat smiled at her mock-mysteriously, "Ah, you'd care to know? I make that my business -on very rare occasions." Then she saw his open smile and frank face, and knew that he could be trusted.
Nat explained. "You see, I decided that you were alone here in town, and ought to have someone to put you wise. You haven't any friends here, have you? Now tell me honestly."
"No," she faltered, "I really haven't." And before she knew it, she, who had not another soul to hear her troubles, was telling this strange young man her story.
It was a story of a small town up state -of an old motherof a talent for singing and dancing according to friends who thought they knew -of her desire to become an actress -and of her final decision to come to the city. The story continued as they all do with heartless agents and managers with whom she -could not get audience, with vain approaches of all the cheaper playhouses, with practically no money left, and with a desire for home or at least some other kind of employment.
That noon she had been looking for a letter from her motherwith a little more money. The second time she went, there had
been a letter with a few dollars in it. And tonight, like other nights, she had come to study the acts.
The time passed swiftly for Nat as she talked to him. The house was filled - the lights had gone out and the curtain was up. Marjorie was leaning forward, not to miss a word or action of the first number on the program. But Nat was looking - not at the stage below, but at the girl beside him - this girl all alone in the city, wanting to dance and sing before the public.
"Wonder if she could do it? I believe she'd reallly get by, with those witch-like eyes and hair, and slender figure." A huge half-dressed blonde was trying to dance below, and Nat compared the two mutely.
Suddenly at the close of an act, a silence came over the house. A man had walked out onto the stage from the wings and was speaking. Nat put his elbows on the rail beside the girl.
"I am very sorry to announce," the manager began, "that our main act this evening cannot be given-the act which I realize you have all come to see and hear, for you knew him and followed his many successes before he went to France to fight. Nathaniel Doyle, of song and dance fame, has not arrived yet. However, in place of this, we are offereing you--"
Nat rose in his seat. With a "Well, I'll be damned" unexpressed on his lips, he called down to the manager.
"Oh, I say, Fred, here I am up here."
The astounded manager looked up searchingly to the blackness of the gallery. "Well, what can you be doing up there?"
"Wait and I'll tell you." He whispered something to the astonished girl beside him; called out again, "Just a minute - I'll be right down," and edged over to the side of the gallery. There he stepped up onto the rail, and while the up-turned faces of the audience showed breathless wonder, he climbed down the side of the flowered trellis to the balcony, across from that to the box, and down the front of it through more trellis work to the stage. Then only did the audience re-discover its ability to applaud, and whistling and yelling rang out from his late neighbors in the gallery, and much hand clapping from below him.
Then with the silence again, Nat began to explain to those before him. "Ladies and Gentlemen: Many of you have been my friends since my first appearance here several years ago , but only those of you who have been in Uncle Sam's army can realize my present position. For twenty months overseas, I spent on the average of twelve hours every day standing in line to get fed, clothing issued, passes to town, inspected , chocolate from the Y. M., to sign the pay roll, or get paid, and finally to get deloused, get aboard a boat, and get discharged. A habit of twenty months is not easily broken, so when I saw the line standing outside tonight - the crowd that came to see me act, I just naturally had to get in line, too. I'll try not to do it again. Honest I will. All right, orchestra, let's go."
Ten minutes later, Nat found himself in one of the wings with the manager who he expected would be angry - rightly so.
But the boss was laughing and his eyes were sparkling as he slapped the warm, perspiring actor on the back. "Come into the room with me, Nat, old man. You brought down the house, boy. It was the best stunt I ever saw pulled. How ' d you think of it? From now on that's the way you open your act - out in front with the crowd. Of course, you'll get extra pay for the line proposition and having to stand that mob in the peanut gallery."
The wide-eyed Nat replied, "Oh, that's all 0. K., Fred, about the standing in line. I ought to pay you for letting me do itconsidering everything. That's the best part of the act now, for I was getting lonesome for the old line-up. But I shall insist on two things."
"Shoot," demanded the manager. "Anything you say as long as you pull that gallery stuff."
"Well, I want to make it a double act. I've got someone in mind, and we'll twist the act around a bit. Yes, it'g a lady. And say, Fred, would you mind having a few nails put in that trellis work?"
Qton~tcrationJ!)pmn
L. E. THARPE
I heard a voice, it came to me Amid the sleepless night; It spoke to me a silent prayer, It called me to the right. Who could it be ? 0 Christ, 0 Christ, 'Tis Thou, 'tis Thou , 'tis Thou.
I've heard this voice from day to day, It called me fr01n a wanderers way; I've sought His face along my path, To guide me from His Father's wrath. Who could it be? 0 Christ, 0 Christ, 'Tis Thou , 'tis Thou, 'tis Thou.
This silent vofre to 111 ,e has said For you I died and even bled, TU save you from a life of sin And make you pure and clean within. Who could it be ? 0 Christ, 0 Christ , ' Tis Thou, 'tis Thou, 'tis Thou.
~n mtnut,ualJ'ljurglar
"Well, we've got to have a turkey-that's all there is to it!"
The statement, tl: ugh emphatic enough, was more or less unintelligible owing to the position of the speaker. Marguerite, more commonly, and far more appropriately, known as "Mickey," was vigorously brushing her curly, bobbed hair with her head thrown so far over that she looked as though she were on the verge of toppling over after it.
However, she could not have been wholly unintelligible, for the girl sitting (?11 the foot of the rather narrow bed on the other side of the room, seemed to have no trouble in undertasnding.
"I'll admit that Christmas without a turkey is a mighty poor sort of Christmas," she drawled, "but, Mickey, how are we going to cook a turkey in that tiny kitchenette?"
"Oh, you're the worst old joy-killer I ever saw, Judith. Of course, we can cook the turkey; we shan't get one as big as a house, you know. You just leave it to me now -I'll buy it and see that it gets browned as nicely as any you ever saw anywhere."
She tossed back her hair, smoothing the wayward ringlets with a satisfied, little pat.
"You hop in bed," she said, "and I'll open the windows and turn out the light."
Judith obeyed the spirit, if not the letter, of the command. Judith was not the kind of girl who would ''hop" anywhere. Mickey was. The two girls were as absolutely different as any two people could well be. Judith was a typical brunette -dark olive complexion, deep, lazy, brown eyes, and a wealth of dusky hair. She was slow of speech, and of action. Mickey's blondness was in as direct contrast as was her vivacity and light-heartedness. Beside Judith's dressing table hung a copy of Gainsborough's Boy in Blue, beside Mickey's, Harrison Fisher's The First Kiss. Enough. Now you can understand just how unlike they were.
The next clay passed swiftly, as days in a big city will do. Judith reached the little apartment first, but in a few minutes Mickey came breathlessly in.
"I got him!" she announced triumphantly. "The boy's just put him in the coop. I would have brought him self myself, but he wiggled so. Oh, Judith, she's a beauty!"
Judith gasped. "Do you mean to tell 1oe yon've gone and bought a live turkey?"
"Why, goodness, Judith, can you buy them any way but live?"
Judith pityingly attempted to explain that one could buy a turkey that was quite dead.
"And," she addded, "now that we've gotten the animal, what are we to <lo with it?"
"Don't fuss with me , Judith," in her most delicious little pleading voice, "I didn't know! And anyway, you can kill it, and I'll pick all its feathers off."
"I kill it indeed! You can kill it yourself! Ugh! I wouldn't kill it for a million dollars."
This gave a new angle to the situation. Mickey stopped and thought it all over. Somewhere back in the dim past, she remembered seeing a turkey killed with an axe, but the very thought of such a thing made her shudder.
"Judith," she asked her disgusted chum, "how do you kill turkeys when you don't kill them with an axe?"
"You can swing their necks, but you needn't expect me to do it."
That left no larger loophole than before, for Mickey had no intention of wringing that turkey's neck. Just how could you ki ll a turkey in a civilized manner? She sat down on the edge of the tiny kitchen table and thought and thought. Suddenly she sprang off the table, threw her arms around Judith's neck a nd exclaimed , "Oh, I know! Vve can chloroform him! \Vhy didn't I think of that before? Of course, we can!"
Judith considered. "Well, I suppose we can do that. It sounds plausible anyhow. You go get the cotton and the chloroform "
In a very little while she was back again, a roll of cotton in one hand, a small vial of chloroform in the other. Now came the problem of administering the chloroform. The turkey was n ot very large, l>ut he was extremely "wigglesome," and extremely averse to having a pad of cotton put over h. head. Neither of
the girls relished the idea of holding the bird, but they were afraid to let him go. Mickey finally entwined her arms around him , pinning his wings to his sides, and Judith fastened the cotton around his protesting head. Little by little the anaesthetic did its work, and the turkey crumpled up in a limp heap.
But the worst was not over by any means. Now came the task of picking the bird. It sounds simple, doesn't it? The girls thought so, too, until they attempted it! But after an hour's real labor, they finished, and triumphantly put the bird in the ice thest.
Christmas Eve night, and the two girls, quite worn out by their unusual culinary attempts, were sound asleep and dreaming of roast turkey to be. But their dreaming was rudely interrupted by a strange noise.
Mickey started up. "Judith! Judith!" she whispered, frantically shaking her sleeping bedfellow. "What was that noise? There's somebody in the kitchen! Oh, I know it's a burglar! "
"You're dreaming, Mickey. Lie down and behave yourself. I didn't hear any noise."
Mickey huddled clown obediently under the covers, but every nerve was tense. Just as she was about to relax, and to laugh at herself for her groundless fright, she heard the noise again , a mournful, muffled cry. But Judith heard it , too , this time.
"Mickey, there is something there! What in the world are we going to do ?"
"Let's call the police! I'm scared to death, but I'll do it! Don't you make a sound, and I'll get out and creep to the phone. They can't hear me 'cause the door's shut!"
Mickey crept slowly out of the bed and across the cold floor to the telephone table. Quickly she dialed the number, and almost in a whisper told the sergeant what had happened. Then she dived into bed, and buried her head under the pillow.
It was really a very few minutes before the three policemen arrived, but to the girls it seemed an eternity. Those minutes, fraught as they were with real terror, \:'.rept so slowly by! But when the men came, Mickey's old courage returned.
"I know it's in the kitchen," she informed them, "Judith says it's not, but I heard it twice and I know!"
They went into the absurdly small kitchenette, and searched everywhere, but they found nothing in the least unusual.
"You ladies must have been mistaken," said the policeman, "for there's surely nobody or nothing here to frighten you."
He had hardly gotten the words out when the mournful cry came again, accompanied this time by a fearful clatter. The nearest policeman threw open the top of the ice chest, and out stepped the cause of all the disturbance - a lone, forlorn, absolutely bare 1urkey !
The University of Virginia
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Departments represented: The College, Graduate Studies, Education, Engineering, Law , Medicine, The Summer Quarter. Also Degree Courses in Fine Arts, Architecture, Business and Commerce. Tuition in Academic Departments free to Virginians. All expenses reduced to a minimum. Loan funds available for men and ·women. Address
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ESTABLISHED 1873