1947 Spring Quiz & Quill by Otterbein University

'1 t

THE QUIZ AND QUILL

Published By

THE QUIZ AND QUILL CLUB OF OTTERBEIN COLLEGE

the staff

Jean. McCloy........

......................................Editor

Mary C. Carlson...

........ ..........Associate Editor

Robert Pollock........

.................Business Manager

James Montgomery

Assistant Business Manager

Spring, 1947

Founded, 1919

FOREWARD

The Quiz and Quill Club is little more than a quarter-century old, for on January 10, 1919, it was organized by seven students and two faculty members. We feel that it has played a significant part in Otterbein's first century. The charter members of Quiz and Quill wei^ Grace Armentrout, Helen Keller, Harriet Raymond, Helen Bovee, Cleo Coppock, Elma Lybarger, Lois Adams, C. O. Altman, and Sarah Sherrick. The first "Quiz and Quill" magazine was issued by this group in the spring of 1919In 1939 the club published the "Quiz and Anthology," a book containing representative work of the first twenty years. The twenty-fifth anniversary was celebrated in 1944, and for this occasion a special silver anniÂ versary edition of the "Quiz and Quill" was published. in this centennial year we are proud of our accomplishments, and we are looking ahead to greater goals. We take pride in pledging to Otterbein College our services during her second hundred years.

PAGE TWO

Dear Buckeye, We feel that we can best express our

appreciation for your many years of service to Otterbein College and to us by dedicating to you this Centennial issue of the "Quiz

and Quill." Thanks.

PAGE THREE

THE QUIZ AND QUILL CLUB

Sponsor Sponsor President Vice President Secretary-Treasurer

C. O. Altman Robert Price Sylvia Phillips lean McClay Jime Mugrage

Evelyn Cliife

Dorothy Miller Viola Sensemon James Montgomery

Martha Good

Robert Pollock

Dorothy Henderson

Nevin Rodes

Jeanne Bilger Mary C. Carlson

LITERARY AWARDS THE QUIZ AND QUILL CLUB FALL, 1946 Poetry First Prize.... Second Prize Third Prize...

_________ Dorothy Idler. '47 ................................ Jam Pollock, *49 ..........................Carol Lynn Yagello, '50

Prose First Prize.... Second Prize Third Prize....

............................. Phyllis Davis, '49 ............................. Babette Marx, '48 ............................Robert Buckingham, '48

SPRING, 1947 Prose First Prize.... Second Prize Third Prize...

...................................Charles Gilbert, '49 ........... Dorothy Henderson, '47 ................................................. Robert Littell. '50

SPECIAL AWARDS DR. ROY A. BURKHART POETRY CONTEST. SPRING, 1947 First Prize................... ............................................... Dorothy Henderson. '47 Second Prize..................................................................... Sylvia Phillips. '47 j Eugene Reynolds, 50 Third Prize.................................... ........................... ^ Joseph Wise. '50 WALTER LOWRIE BARNES SHORT STORY CONTEST. SPRING. 1946 First Prize............................................................................Edgar Darnels, 47 Second Prize.................................................................Janet L. Roberts, '46 COVER DESIGNED BY DAVID SPROUT PAGE FOUR

RESIGNANT JOSEPH S. WISE, 50 Third Prire, Burkhart Poetry Contest

When 1 remember your slender length Tall and stately. Unmoving, As tall poplars are, swaying only gently, Though strong winds whip To mad motion the limbs of lesser trees And send the frightened leaves Fluttering before them Like wounded birds. My soul surges upward, engulfing And sating my whole being ^Vith the memory of you for one brief moment. Then falls back, failing. To lie even deeper in its resigned pool. When 1 recall the sad sweetness of your face, Pale white oval dream. Placid, As cool lakes are, their clear surfaces Mirroring the magic fairyland Of white clouds in a summer sky; The gentle swell, calm ^ As the rise and fall of a sleeping maiden s breast, A deep and sorrowful quietness settles On my heart, and my mind laves In the tender melancholy of those features. And when 1 am minded of your voice. Low and musical. Serene, As the lyrical tone of a contented dove. Her wings folded and composed Beside her mate. Their spirits resting in the same bower, I feel a most unearthly sadness That these, all these Were not for me-

SPRING FEVER PAM POLLOCK, '49 A piece of blue sky and a crocus Suddenly pop into view. And my heartâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;why it just can't help dancing, And my feetâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;why, they want to dance, too! The days are just brimful of dreaming. Of sunshine, and hyacinths fair. For it's spring, and my whole world is laughing; For it's spring, and I know that you care.

PAGE FIVE

MEDLEY

PERSONALITIES

WILLIS GARRISON, '49

When I was tired of efficiency, 1 sometimes went down to Charlie Randazzo's fruit store. There was an easy intimacy about his cluttered place that I didn't find anywhere else. I knew the whole family. On a cold night when I would come blowing and stamping into the store, 1 would find Charlie sitting in the corner by the cheap gas stove which gave only enough heat to steam the windows. He usually had been reading a rumpled copy of "L'Opinione," and then he would pull his little old-fashioned spectacles down on his nose and look over them. "Eh! Elio! 'Ou ees?" he would call. I would sit on an orange crate by the stove and listen to Charlie as he talked about business, Musso lini, and Joe. Joe was the baby—dirty of face, smeary of hands, torn of pants, and all. He went crawling about among the bins, kicking vegetables over the floor until he bumped his head or stubbed his toe; then he sent a squall that brought fat Mrs. Randazzo running. With eyes snapping and earrings swinging she hurried from the living quarters in the rear and scolded Charlie in several Italian dialects while she rubbed Joe's head. The old man sighed and grunted and agreed until she went away; then he would sigh again and say, "Ver' fonny wooming, Rosie." Charlie's naturalness affected everyone who came into the store. Fred, the policeman, threw his mace into the basket of potatoes, and between bites of an apple he told what Louie said when a lady ran into his car and smashed a fender. The waitress who rented a furnished room up stairs came down with bracelets rattling. She had a rambling story about the fortune teller who stopped at the restaurant and told her fortune. She didn't remember much of it, but there was something about a dark foreigner and a musician; she thought Charlie was the musician. Charlie smiled; the waitress grinned until the gold shone and then walked slowly out with the biggest bunch of grapes she could see. The Irish woman who ran the boarding house around the corner hurried in to get some oranges for breakfast, "because all the boys like oranges, they do, and some don't like cornflakes, they don't." But PAGE SIX

she must tell Charlie how Danny, her little nephew, got locked in the closet today. Charlie waited until she paused for breath and then began to tell her about the time Joe crawled into the ice box, "and the door she's go shot." About the time that Danny was whipping the three colored boys from the next street, I realized it was late. I sidled around and pickd up a little fruit, put the money by the broken-down cash register, and went to the door. As 1 opened it, Charlie called, "Eh be goot!" and as it closed behind me, I heard him say to the Irish woman, "Yeh, my Joe, he's a bad wan."

AT THE SEA'S EDGE BABETTE MARX, '48 Second Prize Prose, Foil, 1946

We strolled hand in hand close to the water's edge, stopping occasionally to wish on a falling star or to breathe deeply the salty tang of the night air. The stars smiled down on us, and the long, black waves beat the moon-washed sands in a steady, mournful tempo. The world was ours where sea met land to claim its share of the earth and to deposit on its shore rare treasures from its mystic depths. He bent and picked up a glistening shell, deli cately tinted and aglow in the moonlight with tiny drops of water. Smiling, he handed it to me—his last gift, something to remind me of our nights together. Then he took my hand again, and we walk ed on. Hours passed, and fishermen began to build fires along the dark coast. We drew closer together, and when we reached the rock jetty, we paused and looked out at the moon hanging low over the sea. Here was our promise of tomorrow—our brief glimpse of infinity. We saw the world's unchanging vastness, the great expanse of ocean, the silver of the stars, and the whiteness of the moon. We were two young people like dots on a clear white page in the book of time. Somewhere in the distance a radio shattered the stillness of the night. As the familiar melody of our favorite song came to us, we turned to each other, tears in our eyes and in our hearts. A cloud drifted over the moon, and there in the darkness our lips met. PAGE SEVEN

The words of farewell we had rehearsed were never spoken. We smiled at each other, and then we strolled hand in hand back along the water's edge, stopping occasionally to wish on a falling star or to breathe deeply the salty tang of the night air.

GLIMPSES FROM A SHIP IN THE PACIFIC CHARLES GILBERT, '49 Firs!’ Priie Prose, Spring 1947 "D" DAY AT IWO JIMA (FEBRUARY, 1945)

For four days we have given everything we had to the enemy in the way of shells, death, and destruction. Each day we fought our way into point blank range for all our weapons, even the automatics. Here now, this eve of the fifth day we are along side a transport rearming, only a few thousand yards off shore. Already wounded Marines are being brought aboard the transport. One Marine, without a hand, waves to these men aboard the ship. His face is caked with dust until unrecognizable by me. His torn blast ed clothes are wet with surf, sweat, and blood. All of them—who come out—are this way. Today before those boys landed we could not see all of the beaches for the smoke, dust, and fire caused by the shells we were pouring into it. Then when they moved up, we could see them falling, as mortar and dual-purpose guns from thick concrete blockhouses dropped shells among them. It is going to be a tragic brutal and bloody fight—a Golgotha in the Pacific.

THE BETTIES CLOSE IN

In the murky, sticky air of a hot compartment a group of Uncle Sam's boys batted the breeze and sipped hot mud. The cod tropical trade winds were rising in the soft twilight top-side. Stealthily and quietly the sun took its last bow for the day. It was about the time for routine "sunset general quarters". Like an electrical charge the word came over the speakers; "All hands to general quarters; this is no drill. Enemy planes are in sight. Man the AA battery." PAGE EIGHT

I made a dash top-side for my battle station, pausing on the ladder to check my gear. In about three to five seconds I was sitting at the control seat of a quad mount of forty-millimeters and watching the formations of ominous, bird-like images, dark against the horizon's crest, close for an attack. In rapid succession the orders came down from sky control and were received and relayed. Sky con trol tested. I answered, "Mount one to sky control, manned and ready." "Control Aye.—All guns automatic fire." "One auto.—Mount one to director one—ready to fire in all respects." Only five seconds had elapsed. Those Jap Betties were being flown by skilled veteran pilots with plenty of ability to fly. It was showing up in their closing maneuvers. The attack was well organ ized and was being executed well. I tensed up to the thrill of the occasion and relaxed again when the word came down; "Stand by.—Targets to starboard.^—Mount one—lead plane. "One Aye.—One on target." Six more seconds passed. "All guns commence firing."

Then the command;

Red and pink flames belched into the dusky sunset. White and orange tracers ripped into the fuselage of a Betty. The plane trailed a thin ribbon of smoke behind it for a few hundred yards, then a flash of fire and hell in the sunset, and one of Betty's suns went down never to rise again. A cheer went up like one heard in the bleachers when the home team makes a good play. Five minutes later the word came down; "Stand easy—screen clear," and I slid to the deck, wandered out to the blue grey shield, and watched the after glow of a lovely day paint powderpuff clouds above deep purple and gold. IWO JIMA, 1945

This morning about 10;35, the Marines raised Old Glory on the shell-torn and bloody slopes of Suribachi. We still have not got over the excite ment of looking and seeing,—and looking again to believe. Now there is hope, and faith, and confi dence renewed. After four days of pounding and fighting, the Marines have taken Suribachi. But— they still are fighting up there in the pillboxes of that hugs crater. PAGE NINE

On down the mountain, across the littered and torn terrain, on over the air strip to the line, the Marines have not gained noticeably against the enemy. We out here at sea continue our pounding while ashore casualties continue to mount in num bers. Out here, especially at sunset and at night, one can see the intensity of the firing at enemy planes and the shore bombardment. It is as if some one had strung a curtain of flowing orange, red, and pink tracers on a black velvet drop across the sky. The tracers break in white flashes abruptly a way up there in the black. The firing looks very much like a curtain being fluttered by the evening breezeThese men of mine are cold, wind-blown, sun baked, and rain-soaked as they loaf on the steel deck. They are weary from long, long days and nights on their guns or carrying up more ammunition. Their eyes are deep shadowed and heavy. Yet none of their agility or vitality is lacking when a good target is found or the enemy returns fire as they so often do. The paint is blistered on the gun barrels Out here it is "Fire"—"Load"—"Fire"—Load", until flash, concussion, and fatigue have beaten every one down—down into a tingling flinching mass of flesh, capable of no thoughts other than, "Load"—"Fire" —"Get more ammuntion up men." At night it is enemy planes; there is no rest on the cold damp deck for men.

FALLEN LEAVES CAROL LYNN YAGELLO, '50 Third Prize Poefry, Foil, 1946

The fallen leaves rustle As I walk. The browns, reds, golds Brush, twist, and writhe At my every step. I watch them, They whisper winter. Winter, winter Or love? Brown, red, and gold Rustling noises; Winter, winter Repeats my mindLove, love Hopes my heart. Rustling noises . . . . ! . . . . just my steps. Brown, red, gold. Rustle the fallen leaves. PAGE TEN

THE FREE SPIRIT ROBERT LITTELL, '50 Third Prize, Prose, Spring, 1947

I still remember the day that I became free. Free to roam as I had almost forgotten how. Yes, free-------- free! 1 was a student in a Midwestern university, inter ested in psychology. Professor Willis was the head of the department at the institution. During one of our many talks he told me of his pet theory, imagine, he thought that the mind and body were individual entities! I volunteered to the professor for an experiment, a great and far-reaching experiment. I was laid on an operating table and the professor fastened the electro shock current onto my head. Oh, what pleasant sensa tions went through my body. My senses swam. I was whirling through dimness. The pressure mounted and mounted. 1 felt an intolerable sense of strain—then a sharp, sudden re lease! I was free—free of Jim Rex's body now! I was T'san of Aarlon, who had inhabited the earth body of Rex's body for twenty Earth years! "Comrade, are you free?" "Yes, I am free," I answered. "Who are you?" "I am Klan from Aarlon," he .answered proudly. Memory flooded back to me. I remembered so well the world that I had left, the world of supernatural beauty, splendor that lay far across the cosmos from the drab, heavy little Earth. Aarlon, world not of solid matter, but of floating electrons. With gorgeous light in the glare of a great, white, sun! Aarlon, the wonderous goddess of light and rest! I turned to my comrade. "Comrade, why are you here?" I questioned. "I have come to gain new experience in this Earth world," he answered. "You must return before you are trapped!" "But why should I? 'N*o one of Aarlon that has come here has ever returned to Aarlon. It must be a wonderous place." "We were entrapped! When we entered the species that was inhabiting the earth. These apecreatures have no intelligence, but they have instinct, instinct of greed, lust and hate." PAGE ELEVEN

He looked at me with unbelieving eyes and I grasped for something to say that would make him believe me. "They warped Aarlon!"

us until

we forgot all

about

My comrade looked as though he couldn't understand what I was saying and so I continued— "We forgot Aarlon and when our earth-dwell ers died, remained so dazed and drugged that we merely drifted to another ape-host, another partner." "Why are you able to remember now?" he questioned. "The shock of force released me from my apehost, dissolved the evil forces that held me a prisoner of our earth-partner!" Klan watched me for a while and then as though he was thinking aloud, he exclaimed: "Always we thought the Earth was a wonderful place." "We shall end this farce, Klan. We shall return and stop our comrades from being trapped here." The radio engineer of station WJJS tried to stop the strange static that had entered the waveband, but it was impossible. A new program was drowning out their own program at this time! "This is T'san of Aarlon. I am using my photo electric signaling device to enter your broadcasting system. You who are listening to my signals, you who think this is a joke, listen! "You are not Earthmen, as you think. Your brute bodies belong to Earth, but that within you be longs to Aarlon. Try to remember Aarlon, our glorious world of lovely radiance from which you yourself came long, long ago! Break free from Earth! Come across the cosmos to the undying land of beauty and wonder, place of our own native land!"

Aftermath News Bulletin: "This is Flash Nickols bringing you the latest news. Today at Midwestern University, Professor Willis has been arrested for the murder of Jim Rex, a student at that institution. "But catch this folks! The Prof claims that he has sent Rex's mind into the cosmic world and that the boy is not dead! PAGE TWELVE

"Oh brother!" T'san, gazing at the comrades who refused to free themselves felt only sorrow. The first ever to be known in Aarlon. It was an empty victory, he was free, but many of his countrymen were still imprisoned in the bodies of the barberous ape-creatures!

COME AUTUMN Richard Weidley, '50

Autumn comes; Leaves fall; Bonfires reign; Winter winds call. The sun is bright. The breezes gay; Dark skeletons stand In sad array. The moon is full. Mellow and bright— Geese on wing In their southern flight. This is autumn When the dead leaves fall. Bonfires reign. And winter winds call.

AUTUMN NIGHT SYLVIA PHILLIPS, '47 Second Prize, Burkhart Poetry Contest A very silent thing, a shooting star. And yet it speaks to me in trumpet tones Of all the shining worlds perhaps to come. The shining hopes which yet may be fulfilled; It speaks not thus to you. 'Tis only light Burning its way across an autumn night. You do not know the love of graying days When smoke from fires of dead and fallen leaves Drifts through the air and merges with the clouds. Your happiness is in the thrill of spring. Yours the warm wind that heralds days so fair— Mine the first hint of winter in the air. I would not have you change, if such could be— You would not like my world of dying things; The graying days hold nothing dear to you. Just so, I am not happy in your spring; And I can't ask that you should understand. For we are worlds apart, though hand in hand.

PAGE THIRTEEN

OLD DAN CHRISTIAN RICHARD RINEHART, '50

Spring was here and no one knew It better than old Dan Christian. As the warm, delightful sunshine came pouring over the surrounding hills, the soft breeze brought a stream of summery fragrance to him. Spring was here, and for years that had meant only one thing to old Dan—dig some fish worms and go fishing. But this year it was different—yes, much different! Old Dan had lain in bed most of the winter. Even the doctors had given up hope of his survival, but Dan hadn't given up. He struggled on through the winter, and now he was up and outside again for the first time in five months. Old Dan wasn't a very big man to begin with; now withered and thin, he looked as if a strong breeze would easily pick him up and carry him away. When he walked, he tottered unsteadily, and was forced to stop now and then to rest. As old Dan sat on the back porch steps, his thoughts turned to the many springs he had been fishin' on days like this. For years he had gone every spring to the same place and the same results came year after year. Down the river, through two miles of wilderness, and there was his favorite fishin' hole. It was a place few people visited. A rocky riffle on each side of the spot made it almost impossible to reach by boat, and the wilderness on each bank for a couple of miles kept most people away. This was old Dan's favorite place. Every year he hooked a huge fish here but with the same results every time. He would fight the fish for an hour sometimes, only to lose him. Fre quently the battle didn't last over five minutes, if that long! Old Dan had never seen this great fish, although he hooked him about once a year. By its actions and by the baits it took, he thought it was an old catfish. Don't think that old fish wasn't crafty. It took all of 01' Dan's time to think up some new scheme with which to catch the sly old fish. Napoleon never fell for the same thing twice. Kbpoleon was the name old Dan had tacked onto the fish because he had conquered him so often. Old Dan had told me of this fish but few others knew about him. All winter long 01' Dan had kept saying he had to get well 'cause there was something he had to do in the spring. The doctor thought old Dan was delirious, but his wife and I knew better. Just before PAGE FOURTEEN

he was fishing

Sid

sick he had bought himself some new When he showed it to me, he grinned "Extra heavy! Bought it special for

I'm g°mg

git him this spring or

never.

hope you're right," I said. But by the way he looked I doubted if he'd be going fishing for a

TlTree weeks bad passed from the time old Don u j t- it been out of the house. As I passed by the house that evening on my way home from school “ WouIdVu go fishin' with me tomorrow? The .

if I pet someone to go with me. bet/' no Tsaid, "i'll be tickled to go."

cl rnn

ThP next day turned out to be a swell one. The me chinina the birds singing, and old Dan was sun was 5"^ing, tn ^ SVySroW anS was as, excited as a boy with a shiny-JW bicycle.

Finally we -re ready and we

twe"dTove*hrdetr'ibed the new bait he'd rigged UP Tor old Napoleon. "I been thinkin all winter obout old Napoleon ond I got a brand new trick for him this year. , , ■ • "I hope it works," I chuckled.

//■ u I sure would

like to see old Napoleon conquered." We parked the car in a grove of trees and picked up the equipment we wished to take with US By the time I had everything, Old Dan had already started for the river through the pathless wilderness. Upon reaching the old fishing hole, Dan sat down heavily upon a small boulder. He was breath ing heavily but he had a twinkle in his eye as he rigged up his new fishing tackle. He made sure the hooks were attached to the line securely and then fastened on an odd looking piece of bait. I knew better than to ask what it was because Old Dan wanted complete silence now that we were at the fishin' hole. A faint odor drifted up to me, and I figured the bait consisted of old beef liver. Old Dan stood up, a mite unsteadily, I thought, but he cast his bait far out into the river with the practiced hand of an expert fisherman. I wandered off down the river to find another likely spot because I knew Old Dan wanted that particular place for himself. I fished till lunch time and caught two small suckers. When I got back to old Dan he didn't hear me walk up behind him, so intently was he watching his line. When I tapped him on the PAGE FIFTEEN

shoulder, he looked around in surprise. Without say ing a word he reeled in his line and followed me back from the river bank to a selected spot where we had decided to eat our lunch. As he sat down he looked a little tired and weary, but he still had that sparkling light in his eye. The silence was broken as he said, “I haven't had a bite all morning. Old Napoleon has all the other fish scared away and he hasn't touched my bait." He ate slowly and he had a tar away look in his eye, as if in deep thought. I kept silent, although it was hard for me to do. Old Dan finished eating and as I packed the things back into the basket. Old Dan remarked, "I've got one more trick to try if nothing else works this afternoon." That's all he said as he sauntered back to his seat on the river bank. I had better luck in the afternoon and it was four o'clock before I realized it. I knew we would have to be starting home soon, so I gathered up my tackle and fish and headed up the river toward Dan. Rounding the bend I could see Old Dan sitting on a small boulder at the edge of the river bank. Sud denly Old Dan sat up erect. His line snapped taut as he set the hook. The reel screamed as the fish headed for deeper water and the oid tree snags on the other bank. But Old Dan stepped him. For half an hour old Dan fought the fish with determination and with his new, heavier tackle seemed to be winning. At last the battle appeared over and he reeled the fish toward the bank. I picked up the gaff hook and started tor old Dan. There was a twinkle in his eye as he saw me look down at the fish in the water below. I could feel my eyes grow ing bigger as I looked down at the fish. Only his head was visible and the flat head of the huge x catfish looked like a foot wide. Old Dan chuckled and said, "Well, I've got him! Be careful when you sink that gaff hook into him. He's powerful." I was nervous as I started down the bank toward the huge fish. Old Napoleon lay quietly in the dark water, watching me, while old Dan kept the line taut. But old Napoleon was far from finished. As I neared him, he dived for the bottom and, catching old Dan a little off bal ance, started across the river. Old Dan couldn't stop

PAGE SIXTEEN

him and my heart sank whenI saw the line snap tight and then fail lightly on the water. I knew only too well what had happened. Old Dan reeled in the line as I climbed back up beside him. "Tm sorry/' I mumbled finally, "I'm sorry." "It wasn't your fault, son," he said, "and I'm glad he got away. He loves his life and I'm not the fellow who wants to take it away from him. Yes, I'm very glad that he won again.'â&#x20AC;&#x2122; I knew by the look in his eyes that he was glad. It was almost dusk when we got back to the car. Old Dan could hardly make it, and he had to stop and rest often. He didn't say a word on the way home. When he got home he staggered a little as he headed for the house. With a beaming face he told his wife how he almost caught Old Napoleon. I put his tackle away and went home. Old Dan Christian died that night of a heart attack. The strain had been too great on his weakÂ ened heart. His last words were: "No one will ever conquer Old Nbpoleon and I can die happy knowing it." Two weeks later Jed Barson came to town with the huge head of a catfish, bragging how he'd caught him on a trot line. He wouldn't tell where he caught him, but it sure looked to me like Napoleon. Maybe it was better that Old Dan had died. It surely would have been a disheartening experience for him to realize that someone else had accomplished what he so often had tried to do.

LINES TO OCTOBER DOROTHY MILLER, '47 First Prize Poetry, Foil 1946 I stand engulfed in wonder at your beauty. I am overwhelmed with your array of color; Your warmth, yet elusive coolness; The feeling of calm that exists all about you. How can I open my arms and gather into them all your wonders, All your beauty. And clasp them to my bosom to keep there After you are gone until you come again. Will I behold such beauty, feel such peace When I stand ot the feet of God?

PAGE SEVENTEEN

MARKET DAY MARY C. CARLSON, '47

it is rather early Friday morning, and the sun's warming rays have not yet overcome the chill of night. Yet, the "Mercado", the scene of the famous weekly market in the city of Toluca, Mexico, is already full of vendors, fixing their tents or stalls for the day's business. Friday market is a family affair, transcend ing the attractions of school on that day—an institu tion whose origin lies obscurely in the hazes of history. Toluca, a city of 45,000 people is the focal point, every Friday, for exchanges in goods, sociabilities, pesos, and current events, for peasants coming as far as fifty miles. (And, recently, a focal point for the unappreciative stare of tourists from 3000 miles.) By 8:30 the sun is well up in the sky, and the great market has begun. Recalling the excitement of a circus or a county fair from childhood, one might re-experience the thrills of a Market Day. Street after street is lined with booths tempting the passer by with laces, serapes, jewelry, leatherwork, basketry, pottery, fruits, and vegetables, protected overhead from the sun and rain by tent-tops. Well behaved barefooted, ragged children take pride in arranging the wares neatly, putting oranges and lemons in "montons" of four, bananas in threes, flowers in attractive bunches, and maquey fibers in handfuls. Shopping is leisurely, and approached with an entirely different psychological attitude than we are accustomed to: one doesn't go to market in order to buy: one goes to market, and, if in the process, he purchases something, all well and good. Marketing entails as much etiquette as the proverbial Japanese tea-party. It is not mandatory, but at least a gcod policy to forget germs, remember courtesies, and shake hands with the vendor immedi ately. One comments about the attractive shop or booth, asks about the family, and is generally sociable When the wares have been sufficiently looked over, so that the purchaser knows almost exactly what he wants and the price he will pay, he casually asks how much the pineapple, for in stance, is. The shop-keeper, knowing full well triat it will sell for one peso, quotes one peso, twenty-five centavos, acting shocked when the purchaser, equally shocked, says he absolutely cannot buy it for more than seventy-five centavos. Both spend an enjoyable

PAGE EIGHTEEN

fifteen minutes convincing each other that the trans action cannot be completed, and finally the pineapple is bought for one peso. Purchaser and vendor, equally pleased with themselves, shake hands and part, satis fied with both the sale and the chat. The noon meal is eaten picnic-style—tortillas en closing chiles or pork, and one of the national beverages, tequilla, of pulque. Perhaps the children will be treated to ice cream or candy in honor of the occasion. Early in the afternoon business begins to slack, and, anticipating the heavy afternoon rains, the peasants, like the Arabs, fold their tents and silently steal away—until another Market Day..

RAIN JAMES MONTGOMERY, '48

Cool rain, Tapping at my window With a thousand tiny fingertips. Beckons to me irresistiblyReassuring winds Lure me from my sheltering room. And I walk silently, gratefully Into the tranquil rain. There I am less alone Than in a room crowded with friends And familiar, smiling faces. Friends are more or less ephemeral. But rain is as secure and timeless A creation As the universe itself. I cannot be lonely in the rain; It is my friend.

MARCH MARTHA GOOD, '47

Bright sky and lazy clouds; Soft breeze and laughing sun; Gay smiles and sweet bird-song; And my heart singing. Bleak sky—angry clouds! Sharp wind—cold sun! Frightened birds—faded smiles! And my heart sobbing.

PAGE NINTEEN

OUT OF MY GREEN YEARS DOROTHY HENDERSON, '47 First Prize, Burkhart Poetry Contest I Welded from passion. Steeped in blood. And nourished with the milk of my mother, I hove come to be And exist Now. I am a product And a multiplier. Ail that is dead Is alive in me, And I am a part Of that which is to come. Before me There was a plan Blueprinted by purpose. I am sketching it In white.

II I laugh at you. I laugh at your gold-rimmed spectacles, your bald heads, and tobacco-rinsed teeth. I laugh at your feeble whines, your tottering steps, and long black dresses. I laugh at your rump-bottomed wisdom, your chicken bone politics, and your "A-men" religion. I throw my head back And with the roar of youth I laugh.

ill You who are wise Are shocked at my knowledge. Because I know why babies are born You shake your heads and cluck your tongues. You teach with your mouth; I have learned with my heart. I have drunk vinegar and smelled death. I have danced on nails and watched planets topple from their orbits. Yet you pat my hair And croon me lullabies.

IV I have dreamed dreams. They were written on gossamer night With the magic quill Of silver stars. In the lull of the moon's song I yielded them my heart. In the fog of grey dawn I went searching For my heart.

PAGE TWENTY

V I am free. The call of spring's first robin calls me and I am gone. The green of the leaves filters my blood and my feet are wings. The mad, dashing, tumbling waterfall, splashing in the sun, is my song And my heart leaps as high as the deep, cool blue of the sky. Then I open my mouth and pour out music .... the music of my soul.

VI A child came to me. I have never seen him before or since. He said, "I want to be like you". I was stunned. Then I almost spit in his face. I wanted to throw open my life, throw its ugly browns, stained crimsons, and passioned purples in his clear blue eyes. I wanted to see his eyes cloud with disillusion, disgust, and despair. But I took his hand, smiled, and told him to go home.

VII God, Oh God, How long before I understand? Must I always seek, always grope into the future? Shall I always stumble down in the blackness of day's first night, never to walk up, pulled by the light of noon? Must I always accept rhinestones for diamonds, flour for meat, and a roof for the Milky Way? May I never know, never say with smiling courage, "This is the way"? Oh God! Oh Lamb of God! In thy Calvary's love Wilt thou ever be proud of me?

VIRGINIA JOAN GILBERT, '50

As I gazed down at Virginia in the candlelight, it was hard for me to believe that she was actually there in the church being married. You would have to know her to understand my feelings that night. She was an unusual girl, voice, marvelous eyes, long, a radiant personality. I used minutes in a crowded room person present."

gifted with a beautiful thick blonde hair, and to say, "Give her five and she'll know every

Gini had tucked away under that sparkling personÂ ality of hers a serious determination to use her talents toward one goal. She believed, with all her heart, that God had called her to the mission field. We used to talk for hours concerning the things life had in store for us, but since she was the older, she started out first in search of her quest. PAGE TWENTY ONE

1 knew her for only three months before she went away to school, but during these three months I learned quite a bit about her and her unusual be liefs. To explain this, I had better begin with the first time I made her acquaintance. One morning, about six weeks after I had moved to town, she breezed in to see me, as was her way and said that she had heard me sing and wanted me to study with her voice teacher. Had it not been for her, I might not have started to study for years to come. But she was persistent, and I shall always be grateful. It was through these visits that I became interested in her and she in me. She hardly ever dated—a fact which struck me as strange—and when she did, it was with the idea that she might be able to help the boy in some way. Her religious beliefs didn't permit her to dance, and she told me many times that even if it would have been all right, she could never dance with a man. The idea of being held in his arms made her shudder. Yet men were attracted to her, and although she was friendly, it was always in an impersonal way. When she went to school, we wrote a little, but we were too different to be close friends. When she came home for vacations, however, I always saw a great deal of her. She would always sit and listen in tently, flattering me as she always did, with her con centrated attention, while I told her all the town gossip. During this last year, 1 saw her little, and then only to talk about the usual things. Then, out of a clear blue sky, she became engaged to an architect she had met through letters. She told me then that she thought God had planned for him and her to meet, but she never mentioned God's former plan. Evidently, she had made a mistake in her interpreta tion of His will. That is what was running through my mind as I watched the ceremony on Christmas Eve. In the low lights she looked very happy. But I wonder, as I shall always wonder, if she ever thinks about that plan she spoke of long ago. I wonder if she did the right thing. I hope so, for Virginia, confused as she may be about many things, is still one of the best.

PAGE TWENTY TWO

FANTASY ACCOMPANIES A LUTE PHYLLIS DAVIS, '49 First Prize Prose, Foil, 1946

If I should wake now out of this dream—I won der if I would see the white moon making long shad ows on the village street—long shadows—motionless men playing low lullabies with slender long-nailed fingers on long thin flutes. I hear the melody and I think that I must have tried to run from it once—around a corner—long hard breaths before the turning—down a long alley paved with centuries where man stood still and looked inside himself and felt proud. I couldn't run far enough. On the next street and all the streets beyond tall yellow men—pale in the moonlight—stood in long kimonos and fingered their long lutes. Is there just one tune the lute's voice is trained to—or is this my theme? I came to the village out of a desert of hot white sand and down from a mountain of cold white snow. I did not see the day there, for the moon was brighter than the sun, and the lutes were still when the birds must have sung. What was it I left behind in that village of long nights that is the past and does not belong to any thing I know, anything but the music, the low lute that is part of the long night I am now living in? Shadows are moving in my dreams. Others have come to take up the same monotonous lute strains, and the first group has dissolved into the black shade squat buildings make on uneven cobblestones. I thought once I could never belong to this vil lage, nor could I stay here long, for I am the only evi dence of another civilization it has ever known. But now in my dream I am always here—none of it is for eign to me, nor do I seem out of place to the ebony and bronze figures that people this village. Rather I am to them perhaps a goddess. . . . A soft-slippered serving-man has left me a pot of tea and a fragile translucent porcelain cup, and a voiceless woman has laid out the clothes I am to wear and has bowed and left me with the music. I touch the silk of the kimono dyed indigo like the night and hurry to wrap it around me and slip my feet into pearl-embroidered shoes that shine silver in the moonlight, for something is expected of me PAGE TWENTY THREE

in this lost village, and I feel the song of the lute telling me there is nothing more I should desire to learn of my dream. . . If I should wake now, the moon would be brighter than the sun, and the lute's song would hush the birds, and I would look out on a pale street, and I would want to run no longer, because this sense of power here amidst overwhelming antiquity is my placeâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;what I had thought I wanted to escape when I tried to hide from the lutes that followed me to my dream.

VIGNETTES EUGENE REYNOLDS, '50

Frolic Clouds piled up high Rolling over each other Mischievously.

Love Letter My foolish heart and I Wrote to a long lost love A foolish letter. / She said in her reply. So candid and dry, That I Could write much better.

Actor He casually finds his seat and stops. Flicks his cigarette, and drops Carefully placed ashes into the tray. Blows smoke rings skyward. And continues his play.

FINDERS, KEEPERS PAM POLLOCK, '49 Second Prize Poetry, Foil, 1946 My heart went out a'dancingâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; A'dancing in the breeze While all the leaves wdre falling. Were falling from the trees. But now my heart's not dancing. For on that autumn eve You happened by, and caught it. And hung it on your sleeve.

PAGE TWENTY FOUR

FACTORY STREET AT MIDNIGHT ROBERT BUCKINGHAM, MB Third Prize Prose, Fall, 1946

Picture in your mind a street, a narrow, rather dirty ravine cutting its way through a maze of shabby buildings. Flanking the street on one side for almost a mile is a factory, humming with activity, and the song of industry, only partly muffled by the old brick walls, is an overture to the hubbub of the street. The swing shift is on now, and the workers are watching the clock, for it is almost midnight. Across the street, one against the other like a wolf pack holding a moose at bay, are the rnyriad parasitic establishments ever-present in the vicinity of a factory. Here are the saloons ,whose wares give momentary respite from worldly cares, here the tiny shops, mere blinds for the high-stake poker games in the back rooms; here the smoky poolrooms and little sandwich shops, and all are overflowing with a motley mob of machinists, laborers, apprentices ^ each with his lunch pail, the trademark of the nation s backbone Laughing and joking, they, too, are watch ing the clock, for their day of work is just beginning. The hands of the clock move nearer and nearer to midnight. Gradually the noise and banter die, as al most imperceptibly, the crowd melts away disappear ing by twos and threes into the heart of the shop. Then, for a moment, all is quiet. The narrow, dirty street is empty save for a few tardy stragglers hurrying to their jobs. The neon lights flicker vainly in an attempt to retain for the street its festive air. The smog of the city moves closer to the earth, enveloping it in gray, gauze-like ribbons which can be seen, oh, so clearly, against the street lights. The eerie ethereal quality of a spirit world pervades the street. Suddenly, the long, piercing shriek of a whistle, a tidal wave, an avalanche of sweaty, grimy men the saloons,'’the tobacco shops, and poolrooms. A stream of traffic materializes, and is dornmed by buses and street cars Icadjrig their cargoes of human ity, and the street is steadily dta'ned of its life. Once again men desert the street and its glittering artif ic_|ality for the heart-warming comforts of home. The street does not change. Year after year it has its daily periods of quiet and activity. Men grow old, and aew faces are seen, but the factory street remains for ever, an avenue of life. PAGE TWENTY FIVE

BOIDIE GOES LITERARY JEAN McCLAY, '47

Mabel, come on in! I ain't seen ya in a dog's age. I don't think I seen ya since the Hitzel Co. clambake. Yea, that was sure some shindig. I'm tellin' ya, I got pretty sore. I really told Hoiman where to get off at. Why, I ackshully hadda carry him home. Ackshully, I mean I'm tellin' ya, I was disguested. "Hoiman," \ says ta him, "Hoiman, listen," I says, "just because you gazoos work for a brewery, that don't mean that ya hafta poisonally sample each vat," I says, "and furthermore," I says, which I was really boined up, Mabel, "when ya get stinko, ya don't hafta expec\ me ta get ya home." I'm tellin' ya, Mabel, he fell all over himself fellin' me how sorry he was. Anyway, he ain't gonna do that again. We stopped goin' out at night. Every night Hoiman reads ta me. It's so romantical, Mabel. Hoiman has such a beautiful voice. Oh say, did I tell ya about the pome he wrote me when he was in the jug last week? Oh, it was beautiful, Mabel. "Stone walls do not a prison make, 'Nbr iron bars a cage. I'll love ya always, Boidie dear. If I'm here 'til my old age." Ain't that sweet, Mabel? I'm tellin' ya, I almost cried. I told him it was sweet. "Hoiman," I says ta him, "Hoiman' that's sweet." And ya know what he tells me? "Boidie," he says ta me, "Boidie, it's just like I always say, ya sure do apprishiate the finer thingsa life." So that's why we started to read Shakespeare. Say, that guy sure wrote some swell stuff. What? Ya never heard of him! Listen, ya hafta read some. Why, last night Hoiman read me this story about a Irish cop named McBeth who kills a king. But it ain't really this guy McBeth's fault. He's got a wife who's really a no goodâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;well, I won't say what she is, but ya get the idea. She keeps eggin' him on until he does it. Ya see, when he kills the king, he gets ta be king. After that it kinda gets mixed up. I didn't understand it all. There's more moiders, and bells ringin', and ghosts walkin' around, and daggers floatin' in the air. But he finally gets what's cornin' to him in the end, yea. Oh, and say, Mabel, this McBeth throws a party, see, and, boy, vvas he anxious about it. He could hardly wait.

page

twenty six

It musta been some brawl. He makes this gorgeous speech on the night before, 'Tamorra, and tamorra, and tamorra,â&#x20AC;&#x201D;creeps in this pretty pace from day ta day ta the last cylinder of recorded time." Oh, it's beautiful. And it's got a moral, too, Mabel. That's what Hoiman says. He says we'll hafta read it ta our kids when we have some kids ta read it to. "Boidie," he says, "Boidie, we sure will hafta read this ta our kids. It's gotta moral to it," he says. And listen, Mabel, this moral is kinda hidden, see. This cop's wife. Lady McBeth they call her, which i can't see why because she soitanly wasn't no lady, anyway, she goes nuts. Now here's where the moral comes in. Ya see, Mabel, she goes nuts bcause she don't like ta wash her hands. Ain't that the nuts? So subtile. Ya can see the effect it would have on kids. Yea, that Shakespeare sure was some guy. Ya don't get it? Well, Mabel, I guess that's just because ya ain't literary minded like I am. Ya know how I like Edgar A. Guest, Mabel. Hoiman says I'm literary minded. "Boidie," he says, "Boidie, ya sure are literary minded." He's so sweet. "Hoiman," I always say, "Hoiman, ya sure are sweet." ^ No, Mabel, we ain't gonna read tanight. Ya know, this guy Shakespeare is kinda deep, and HoiÂ man thinks we oughta communicate with natcher and sorta think it over. So we're goin' over ta Coney tanight. Tamorra, though, we're gonna read "King Lear." Shakespeare wrote that one, too. It's all about a guy who has a daughter who likes salt in her beer which he tries ta cure. 1 can hardly wait.

SUCCESS HERBERT BARTHOLOMEW, '50 What is this thing they call success? The praise Of men? High monetary wage? Assisting other men along life's way. Neglecting self with harmful consequence? Being the generous business man and shielding The fraud by sharing spoils with charity? Attaining high authority, believed For good of all yet obviously For selfish purposes alone? To you who shout at us not yet mature Enough to see the fallacies in dreams About success, hove you defined success? Oh no! You go about orating on The merits of on unfamiliar term. And you will never tell o man that he Is not successful. So to gain success, A man has but to live.

PAGE TWENTY SEVEN

PEACE AT LAST JEAN FABRICANT, '50

She loved the water. The lake looked so calm and peaceful, so quiet and serene, so very, very peace ful. As she stood there, she could remember how it was. It all came back so vividly to her . . . She was going to camp, and how she hoped she'd have a good time! But she knew she wouldn't; she never did. As far back as she could remember, she was always sad, troubled, and unhappy; . . . her father always coming home drunk; her mother scolding; and a pale little girl, with big brown eyes from which big luminous tears poured like a fountain, cringing in the farthest corner of the room. That time she was going to get a new bicycle— oh, yes, she was almost happy then. But the baby needed a new carriage, and she didn't really need a bicycle. She could remember how other little girls in school looked at her and laughed. They didn't under stand her or like her, and they knew all about her father. They whispered loud enough for her to hear, "Wonder if he beat her old lady last night.?" No, she had never been happy. Now she was going to camp because Mama and the baby were going to Grandma's house, and there was no room for her there. She wondered where Daddy was, but they wouldn't tell her. Camp! The thought terrified her. She had never been to camp before and she was so afraid. She could remember, too, the train ride. There were six girls and the counsellor. Polly and Sue, who had always been best friends, were reading a a comic book together and eating thin, delicious-look ing yellow cookies with chocolates and nuts in the middle. Polly's mother had baked them. How she wished she could taste just one! Joan, Ann, and Margie had been to camp before and were singing camp songs in their merry young voices, so that the people in the train looked at them indulgently and smiled in humor. The young counsellor (they said to call her "Aunt Betty", but she thought that was rather silJy because she wasn't really her aunt) was flirting with the handsome young soldier across the aisle. Everyone seemed happy to be enjoying herself. Tears of self-pity welled in her eyes .Why wasn't she having a good time? Why? Why? Why?

PAGE TWENTY EIGHT

And now she was at camp, gazing transfixed at the water, and she was still asking herself, "Why?" The rest of the girls were playing tennis. They wouldn't let her play; she wasn't good enough. Why wasn't she good enough? if they could play, why couldn't she? The water looked so inviting, gently rolling to and fro. They wouldn't even let her go boating because she couldn't swim. Why couldn't she swim? She loved the water so! It looked so untroubled and serene. If only she could swim! She would swim and swim and never come back. The water fascinated her. It was like a magnet pulling her toward it. She put her toe gently into the water. It felt so cool, so refreshing. She took a step forward and then another. It was up to her knees. How they tingled! The rest of her body ached for that sweet tingling feeling. She took another step. She could hear laughter and gay voices of the other girls. "Why?" she started to ask again. "Why? Why?" Another step, another. The still, gentle ripples of the water were disturbed for a moment. Then all was calm, peaceful and serene again.

SONG AT PARTING SYLVIA PHILLIPS, '47 I have lived with loneliness And do not fear its calm return; My life again will be my own. And I can be a heretic. A poet, or a ne'er-do-well. And none will know or care but me. I can be whimsical and seek The mountain road at dawn or dusk And walk alone, and only eyes— Not lips or tongue—will question me. Ah no, my dear, when you depart. It is not loneliness I fear— For it has seldom been unkind; 'Tis just that I have never known How solitude will seem to me Filled with the image of your face. I da not fear the empty room; It's just I've never entered in An empty house where love is not Without my own an empty heart.

NOSTALGIA PAM POLLOCK, '49 The fragrance of gardenias always brings In one sweet scent,-------- lost dreams from years gone by. I seem to hear the fragment of a tune-------A melody forgotten long ago-------And I am dancing-------- floating on the air-------And you are close beside me once again--------

PAGE TWENTY NINE

LUIGI C. G. ROCKLEY. '50

I found him one day as I was strolling along a street in the little Italian village of Lecce. I was passing an open doorway, through which an artist's easel with a half finished painting caught my eye I stopped to glance into the dimly lighted room at other paintings lining the walls and soon found myself deeply engrossed in conversation with the artist, whose name was Luigi, and Maria, his wife. That evening passed all too quickly, but many other times while I was stationed in Italy, I returned and spent many happy hours in that little flat so poorly lit physically, but illumined so immeasurably by the countenances of Luigi and his little family. Conversation was rather tedious at times be cause he knew no English. But with what Italian I had learned, and with the frequent use of a twenty-five cent dictionary, I eventually gained from him a most interesting and touching story. fhe war, Luigi had been an artist of no Nbples. He had worked long and hard and had saved at every opportunity, his one aspiration family to America. There not only would his talents be recognized and put to use, but 9 ® would be able to provide more comfortably tor his wife and two children, especially for the chil dren, SIX and three, that they might be educated properly and really enjoy the democratic way of life. Kosanna and Cici were two of the cutest and most delightful children I have ever met. Luigi s hopes had suffered a grave set-back in the war however. His home had been totally destroye . e had been forced to bundle up his family and go wherever he could to make a living. His wife had re a ives here in Lecce; so they had finally managed y irst one means and then another to make the long journey there a distance of approximately four hun dred miles. ecce, not having been a very strategic position uring the fighting, had been only very lightly hit. mmediately following liberation, however, the sur rounding area became quite important to the Allies ecause air bases, supply dumps, and all sorts of maintenance outfits were set up there. r , of the G. I. opened up a new field tor Luigi, and he was soon on the road to recovery PAGE THIRTY

with his painting. He began to paint portraits for the G. I.'s, both of those who would pose, and from photographs of wives and parents, which they brought to him. Never have I seen a more captivating personality than Luigi. He seemed to transfer the fullness of that character and personality into his brush and from thence into the painting itself. There was a radiance about his person that was simple and serene. His face had the essance of sincerity. That face and the life it shone for will remain silhouetted in my mem ory. Materially speaking, he may have been termed a “pauper," but it was the “king" that shone through. To know him as I knew him would be reason enough for anyone to take stock of his own faith. “Undaunt ed" was hardly a great enough word for his. Such traits would surely have caused the very noblest and strongest to falter. His life, I found, was grounded in his belief that man is basically good. He fashioned it after the teachings of his Lord, a fact that was vitally evident in his words and deeds. I shall never forget the joy and ectasy that enveloped his whole being one day when I gave him a small copy of the Christ head that I had gotten from the Chaplain. From it he made me a large painting, the equal of which I have never seen. Every little line, every little detail is perfect. I cherish it as one of my most prized posses sions. I also have hanging in my room a portrait of myself that would challenge any photographic produc tion. Luigi's true delight, however, is in the religious field, and I hope that he will soon be able to devote his time to it again. I hope that his works will find their way into the hands of real art lovers. Most of his cherished paintings were destroyed with his home. He is even more set on coming to America now. I believe that he will be here some day. When I left Italy, he was painting two and three portraits a day for the G. I.'s at ten dollars each. I have never seen a more forlorn creature than he was when he learned that the air bases were breaking up. He had come to love the Americans. Many Americans will not soon forget him and his family. There was not that air of contempt and suspicion about them that G. I. Joe more often than not associated with the foreign peoples he contacted. Luigi and his family looked to

PAGE THIRTY ONE

brotherhood and not towards what they could eke out of the soft-hearted American soldier. If it does take all kinds of people to make a world, then may God grant that there will be more like Luigi and Maria.

UTOPIA~COED STYLE MIRIAM LAFEVER, '50

Lost night I closed the solemn gray cover of the Omnibus," after reading James Thurber's story "The Whip-Poor-Will" and prepared for a long winter's nap. After boxing four rounds with the pillow I gave up, snapped on the light and reached for the last edition of the "Tan and Cardinal". On page one I read an item which stated that "coeds will occupy fifty per cent of the class offices during the CentenÂ nial year." "How about that?" I exclaimed. "It's about time the girls got together on a program so that they can take over and run things right." Suddenly the print blurred before my eyes like a camera going out of focus, and I found myself walking down a familiar street. It looked like College Avenue, but it was oddly changed. The buildings were pastel pink and blues like the still life drawings in the Art Department, and instead of breathing rotten egg gas from the Science building, I was inhaling Chanel No. 5. From the steeple on the Administration Building the chimes were pealing forth "L'Amour, Toujours L'Amour." As I entered the Administration Building a college boy who was six feet three and who looked like a doorman from the Waldorf with his beautiful uniform, held the door for me. Suddenly I noticed a building to the right of the Ad Building, a nice modern structure with a steady stream of coeds passing through its portals. "What's that imposing structure?" I inquired. "Grand Central Powder Room," he ansÂ wered. "Cost four hundred fifty thousand. There s one like it on most of the college campuses in Ohio. I began to understand and queried,^^ Are the women in power and running the college?" "Not exactly," he told me. "Do you think one woman would vote for another? But they're electing only the men they like." As I lingered to talk with the handsorne man, one of the ex-G. I. students approached the PAGE THIRTY TWO

doorway to the administration building, and the doorman said, "Let me see your marriage card." After he had produced the evidence and entered the building, I asked the doorman, "What's that?" "Every man has to carry one. It tells his age, income and chest development. If a man isn't married by the time he is twenty-four, the student council puts him to work as a baby sitter in Vet Village. "Every male student has to shave as soon as he gets home from classes and every fellow with more than one stomach is given Ry-Krisp and water in the dining halls. "When a coed gets to be over twenty-one," he continued, "they burn up her birth certificate. Eight out of the twelve months are named June. So there is a pre-vacation spirit to brighten the campus. "Courses in reading, writing and rumba are popular on the campus. Willie's is selling chocolate creams split in half so that the girls can tell what's inside them without biting into them. Scales in the gym register ten pounds lighter, and mirrors in the locker room have been designed to make stylish stouts look size twelve." "How about courses in bookkeeping and accountÂ ing?" 1 asked. "Well, the girls couldn't understand it, took a vote, and decided to skip it.'â&#x20AC;&#x2122; Completely puzzled by the college life in Utopia, I thanked the doorman for his information and walked slowly past the stately elm trees toward Home Street. "So long, Blondie. Watch yourself crossing the street'" he said, as he walked toward the men's gym. "The ladies passed a law that entitles a person to drive on either side of the street." As I walked away, lost in thought, a chartreuse and shocking pink roadster suddenly came at me from nowhere. There was a shrieking of brakes, and then silence. I woke to find the alarm had just run down. It was six fifteen and Monday morning, with a theme in English, a test on basketball in Gym, a chapter to read in History, and a practical lab test in Science. Ah! Utopia!!

NOVEMBER BONFIRE SYLVIA PHILLIPS, '47 The last of summer leaves go up in flame; Strange how they hid the forms of branches ere they fell I know no more the leaf-filled trees I knew so well; The barren outlines now seem not the same. Strange, too, your passing summer love had changed me so That since it's gone, it is myself I do not know.

PAGE THIRTY THREE

RAtN MARGARET COOK, '50

Rain is defined in Webster's Dictionary as water falling in drops condensed from vapor in the atmosphere. To me, rain is almost a living thing, sometimes warm and friendly, other times cold and vicious. 1 love the rain. When I am tired and discouraged, perhaps feeling lonesome and sorry for myself a good rain always makes me feel better. If it is one of the cold, cruel rains, I sit in my roorn and watch the raindrops beating against the windowpanes. I watch the rain batter and bruise the world outside, it pounds viciously on the streets, side walks, and rooftops, then bounces high and drops once more to run off in the eaves and gutters. Here and there an unfortunate being scurries rapidly on his way through the driving rain. As I look out across the vast sky, the rain is coming down in a seemingly endless torrent, the world is huge—I feel small and in significant, merely one of billions existing for an un known reason. I have no right to think that my troubles are so important. The rain continues and my worries temporarily melt away. Better still is the friendly rain. It can be very soft and gentle, or a bit severe. I prefer it just a little ^ companionable. Then when I feel blue I put on my raincoat, and sometimes boots and a scarf (which never stays on for long), and go for a lingeririg walk in the rain. Though solitude is something almost unknown on a college campus, when walking in the rain I can find something approaching it. The drops falling around me are rather like a veil, or thin curtain which envelopes me separates me from people. The rain stings my face, wets my hair and soaks my feet, but I love it. As I walk, the wind and the rain blow and wash away my cares, and for a while I am happy. Around me the rain is cleansing the trees, the houses, the whole world. I return to my room—wet, tired, and peaceful. After the shower has come and gone, the earth seems cleaner and brighter, a better world. I look at the fresh, clean earth, and I, too, feel cleaner and brighter, capable of trying a little harder to be worthy of living on God s earth.

PAGE THIRTY^FOUR

WAITING DOROTHY HENDERSON, '47 Second Prize Prose, Spring, 1947

The moon was trying to be full, but it shed only a silver mist that covered up reality and merged the sky and the lake with the opposite shore. The only real things were the slow ripples that came from somewhere out in the white fog, lapping up at my feet, bringing fragments of moonlight. I wandered along the shore, pausing here and there to send a shining white pebble skimming across the water until it fell with a distant thud. A light rain began to fall, and it only added to my desolation. The visit to the church in the morning—later, the refugees in the road—what more? Had war complete ly destroyed all the good and beautiful? My eyes closed to the beauty around me; my thoughts turned back— Though I had known it would be so, it was a shock to see the whole facade of the church sand bagged. Entering the shrine through a tunnel of sand bags hurt a little. There, at the soldiers' altar, a crucifix rose over the tricolors massed, and I knelt, involuntarily. But as I rose again to stand in the great temple, it scarcely seemed a place of worship. The splendid altar was gone. In its place a single candel abra moved up in the transept; the whole apse was boarded off, dark, no music, no priest's presence, no single candle's flame to show that the faith continued. There was scaffolding over the exquisite wood carving of the choir stalls. Instead of the rich purplish glow sifting through jeweled windows to make so awe inspiring this temple of an age that knew God, a brutal white light washed into the transept from the west wartime window. A harsh light discovered peel ing wall paint, and brazenly revealed all the blemishes that centuries of reverent sun had left veiled. An uneasy feeling of abandonment seemed to spread out and encompass everything of beauty everywhere. And then the road this afternoon. Crazy baggage—a broken down car that groaned under the weight of a family of five with baggage, pulling q two-wheeled peasant cart that carried their beds; behind the cart was a white baby carriage with two young goats peering in amazement from beneath the hood. The screech of German dive bombers; the dusty faces of a motorcycle corps of young Frenchmen, PAGE THIRTY FIVE

hurrying to meet the enemy in the direction from which we hod come; the anguished face of a peasant woman who dragged heavy buckets of water to the roadside and handed cups of cold water to the soldiers to gulp as they passed. It might have been easier if the children had cried, those who had seen their parents killed beside them on the road and who moved on with the crowds. But they just sot quietly in their carts, staring ahead, oblivious to physical hurts, awaiting someone to bandage and wash them. Some had walked too many miles. When we pulled off the pieces of their stock ings and shoes, skin came, too. I looked up into the night. The sounds seemed to grow, the rippling waves, the soft wind and rain, and then—the ever dreaded sound—the sound of motors. Drearily my nerves sent the message to my brain cells — dive bombers. My well-trained ears knew it was one of theirs. My body would not respond. Why should I run to cover? Why hide like a hunted animal? Why live? Then came the answer. A half-mile away the refugees were camped. Within ten minutes the noise of death and destruction, bodies and blood, would shatter the night. VVhile my benumbed mind tried to think, my fumbling hands grasped the matches in my coat pocket—some paper— a letter from George— I smiled wanly. Some driftwood; my fire was kindled. The fog was thick, thick enough. And now I wait, wait for the planes with their burdens of death. My fire will draw them—like bees to honey. I am tired. Life is too much. One more day of life for those weary travelers, but my task is finished. And so I wait.

G. I. ROSARY FRED BEACHLER, '49 (This poem was written while the author wos a prisoner of war in Italy.) The way is dark, the light is low; Dear Jesus, we have far to go. The perilous way we do not know. To you we pray; Thy kindness show. What way is best in "No Man's Land"? We ask, Oh Jesus, Thy guiding hand. Our heavy pack upon our back. We fwist and toss, but do not crack. We think of Thine—Ye bore a cross. Each step we take beneath the load. Each mile we make along the road. We beg of Thee, Oh Jesus Dear, Lead us away from fear PAGE THIRTY SIX

A SMILE EUGENIA FIGGINS, '50 A stranger approached. I smiled and nodded my head; Then he, not knowing, smiled back. And a friend passed by instead. An enemy approached. I smiled and nodded my head; Then he smiled back, forgetting the quarrel. And a friend passed by instead.

MERRY CHRISTMAS PAST RICHARD WEIDLEY. '50

I remember the last time Ken was home. He had straightened his room and said that when he came home, he hoped that everything would be just the same. Then he said to me, "Kid, anytime you want to use any of my things, go right ahead. I hope that you'll grow so that you'll be able to wear my clothes. I'll probably grow out of them while I'm away." "Now, Mom, let's not have any of that. You know how I hate to see women cry. And, Dad, I hope you won't come down to the station. Things are always worse that way; let's all say goodbye here and save a lot of that." Ken came over to me and shook my hand the way I liked, a real, firm handclasp. His eyes had a strong look, but they still had that sparkling, dancing movement which was his alone. His light hair forrtied that familiar wave about which we used to tease him. His tall, slim figure looked strong. He was wearing his favorite blue sport coat, dark blue trousers, and a white sport shirt open at the neck. As he let my hand go, I felt as though we were already separated. I felt a big lump in my throat, but I was going to hold it thereâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;at least until he left. Ken went over to Dad and grasped his hand. He said something, but it was too low for me to hear. Then he went to Mom, took her in his arms, and gave her a long hug and a big kiss. Then he ran to his room, got his grip, took one last look a this possesÂ sions,' darted down the stairs, said one last goodbye, and ran out of the house and down the street. He was gone! But that was over three years ago. He left on August 9, 1943. He was a regular writer. We usually received three letters a week. Each letter gave us an PAGE THIRTY SEVEN

outline of his training for that day. Finally we recoived a letter saying that he would be home on leave in days. We were all thrilled when we got the good news. It seemed as if he had been gone two instead of only two months. Mom was planning all her meals just the way Ken liked them. Dad had secured tickets tor a football game, and he was plan ning to take him to the Rotary Club. Ken had always wanted to go to Rotary, but Dad had said that he could wait until he got out of school. I was walking on air. After all, I had a brother who was in the Marine C^rps. I went to his room and made sure that all his things were just as he had left them. Then a special delivery letter came. His company had received orders that they were to be shipped out immediately. All passes were cancelled. Ken thought that they were probably going to the Pacific area. We could tell by his letter that he was very much depressed. It is very difficult to tell how we felt. Ail our enthusiasm was gone. It seemed as if the whole floor had dropped from beneath us. We had to face it, ^ough. We knew what it meant. We might not see Ken for two or even three years. Why did it have to happen so quickly? He had been shipped out almost before he left. All our plans had to be cancelled. Our hopes had fallen into the depths. Then it was December. Christmas was on its way. It seemed strange not to have Ken running around worrying about what he should get his girl for Christmas. I can still hear him saying, "Mom, you're a woman. What do girls like for Christmas? He had been a varsity basketball player for three years. We were so proud of him; we never missed a game. Coach Carmel came to visit us the day before the first game. We were pleased and sorry when he told us how much the team missed Ken. "'It is a handicap for the team, not knowing Ken this year," he said. "He really kept us on our feet." The coach had no idea how much his visit meant to us. December twenty-fourth, the day before Christ mas, came. I was excited, as I always was on that day. We really weren't planning very much of a celebra tion. We had a small Christmas tree in the corner of fhe living room. Ken had asked that we have a tree just as we had done when he was there. When Dad came in that evening, his arms were loaded with PAGE THIRTY EIGHT

packages. He placed them in their respective piles as he had done every other year—one pile for each, Mom, Ken, and me. Then Mom and I brought down our gifts for Dad and set them in their place. At, seven-thirty we turned on the tree lights and placed lighted candles on the mantel and on the dining room table. I turned off all the house lights. The three of us then sang "Silent Night," and then Mom read the Christmas story from the Bible. I could detect a quiver in her voice, but 1 didn't let on. I felt just the same way. She finished the reading, and I began to pass out the packages. Just as I sat down to open my first gift the door-bell rang. I sprang to my feet and ran to answer it. It was a boy from the telegraph office, i took the telegram; Dad and Mother exchanged glances. I handed the envelope to her. She opened it. Suddenly she dropped her eyes; the telegram dropped from her hands. She just stood there gazing out the window. Big tears were running down her cheeks. Dad and I ran to her at the same time. Dad picked up the telegram and read, "We regret to inform you that your son was kill ed on December 2, 1943. He has been buried at sea with full military honors." That was the end of our merry Christmas past.

AND THERE YOU ARE PAM POLLOCK, '49 One day as I wandered alone thru a wood And sat myself under a tree To think some deep thoughts— A pixie appeared— And laughingly perched on my knee. He sang a gay song. He danced a wee jig. Then stopped—and as though torn apart He fell—sobbing, there— "What are you?" I asked. And the pixie replied, "I'm your heart.

A MEMORY JEAN McCLAY, '47 Cold rain on my face, and the wind in my hair A walk, just a walk in the middle of winter. Why should it have left this impression on me. If I could but know; could I but recapture \ The wonderful feeling of rain on my face On a walk, just a walk in the middle of winter. There must have been other things that I did, That 1 felt, that I saw, that I heard. Yet all I recall from that day long ago Is cold rain on my face, and the wind in my hair— A walk, just a walk in the middle of winter. Why should it have left this impression on me?

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TABLE OF CONTENTS A Memory—Jeon McClay, '47..............................................................39 A Smile—Eugenia Figgins, '50..............................................................37 And There You Are—Pom Pollock, '49............................................39 At The Sea's Edge—Babette Marx, '48.............................................. 7 Autumn Night—Sylvia Phillips, '47................................................... 13 Boidie Goes Literary—Jean McClay, '47.........................................26 Come Autum—Richard Weidley, '50.................................................13 Factory Street At Midnight—Robert Buckingham, '48................. 25 Fallen Leaves—Carol

Lynn Yagello, '50......................................... 10

Fantasy Accompanies A Lute—Phyllis Davis, '49......................... 23 Finders, Keepers—Pam Pollock, '49................................................... 24 G. I. Rosary—Fred Beachler, '49........................................................ 36 Glimpses From A Ship In The Pacific—Charles Gilbert, '49___

Lines To October—Dorothy Miller, '47..............................................17 Luigi—C. C. Rockley, '50.......................................................................30 March—Martha Good, '47...................................................................... 19 Market Day—Mary C. Carlson, '47................................................... 18 Medley Of Personalities—Willis Garrison, '49.............................. 6 Merry Christmas Post—Richard Weidley, '50..............................37 Nostalgia—Pam Pollock, '49..................................................................29 November Bonfire—Sylvia

Phillips, '47............ .............................. 33

Old Dan Christian—Richard Rinehart, '50.........................................14 Out Of My Green Years—Dorothy Henderson, '47......................... 20 Peace At Last—Jean Fabricant, '50................................................... 28 Rain—Margaret Cook,

'50......................................................................34

Rain—James Montgomery, '48.............................................................. 19 Resignant—Joseph Wise,

'50................................................................ 5

Song At Parting—Sylvia Phillips, '47.................................................29 Success—Herbert

Bartholomew,

'50................................................... 27

The Free Spirit—Robert Littell, '50................................................... 11 Spring Fever—Pam Pollock, '49........................................................... 5 Utopia - Coed Style—Miriam Lafever, '50........................................ 32 Vignettes—Eugene

Reynolds,

'50....................................

Virginia—Joan Gilbert, '50...........................................

Waiting—Dorothy Henderson, '47...............................

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