1948 Spring Quiz & Quill by Otterbein University

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THE QUIZ AND QUILL Published THE QUIZ AND QUILL CLUB OF OTTERBEIN COLLEGE

THE STAFF Editor _________________________________Robert L. Buckingham Assistant Editor----------------------------------------------------------Phyllis Davis Business Manager--------------------------------------------- Charles H. Gilbert Assistant Business Manager__________________ Marvin Hummel Cover design by Charles H. Gilbert

THE QUIZ AND QUILL CLUB C. 0. Altman â&#x20AC;&#x201D;-

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Robert

Price------

------------------- Adviser

Marvin

Hummel

---------------- President

John

Wells--------

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Willie Garrison...

Sponsor

Vice-President

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Phyllis Davis

William Brill

Pam Pollock

Charles Gilbert

Jack Marks

Robert Buckingham James Montgomery

LITERARY AWARDS

Quiz and Quill Autumn 1947 Poetry Awards First Prize....................................................................... Eugenia Figgins Second Prize......................................................................... Pam Pollock Quiz and Quill Autumn 1947 Prose Awards First Prize........................................................................... C. G. Reckley Second Prize......................................................................... William Brill Charles GUbert. Class '49 Autumn 1947 Prose Awards First Prize....................... .................................................-Mary McPeck Second Prize.......................................................... Eugene Putterbaugh Charles GUbert, Class '49 Autumn 1947 Prose Awards Ruth Mugridge

First Prize................. Second Prize... .Tie

.. Patricia Jones Mary McPeck

Dr. Roy Burkhart Poetry Contest 1947-48 First Prize....................................................................................Mugridge Second Prize............................................................................... Reynolds Third Prize.........................................................................................Vorpe Quiz and QuiU Spring Prose Contest 1948 First Prize............................................................................William Bale Second Prize .................................................................... John Prentice

FOREWORD TO POEMS JAMES W. MONTGOMERY

One admonition only: As if these impressions were Cellophane-enclosed, Take them up tenderly; An atmosphere of reason touching them Would lessen their intensity As chronological toys.

CAREFREE PAM POLLOCK

Oh. to be a gypsy! The wild wind in my hair— To wear a scarlet petticoat And never have a care.— I’d skip along the highway From Cairo to Cathay— And hum a wistful far-off tune All along the way— The new moon I’d take with me, A ragged dream or two— I’d leave behind my broken heart, My broken heart,—and you.—

ALCHEMY RUTH MUGRIDGE

NdVember long had been to me A month of dull sobriety With nothing of the wanton flarrie That rises with October’s name. Then you appeared, and suddenly November smiled entrancingly. I found with quick surprise that I Saw beauty in a cloudy sky. Contrary to my old belief A lonely tree, though bare of leaf Was beautiful. Was it not strange To find you’d wrought a sudden change? Where learned you this rich alchemy That turns the drab to fair for me? I wonder if you can explain My sudden love for walks in rain? Or can you tell me why your sighs Can make me weep, who never cries? (Now you are gone—and April, long most gay, Is desolate, since you have gone away.)

’ retreating as he advances. Or else it is death he is patience he waits. He is assisted in his vigil by the accumulated patience and enthusiasm for a kill mnerited by every ordinary cat. A sound. Every muscle is magnificently taut for the spring, ^e claws ready. His instinct tells him that his foe is there. He has only to wait and then . . does he kill coldly, without u ‘^o^s he blaze with the red anger of a moment in vmich he is obliterated and something primitive and unaccount able inside him takes control—as human beings kill? Out of the night, down countless centuries, comes a call— the old jungle call—and the little tigers awaken, stretch their legs, shoot out the knives in the padded cushions of their paws, lick their lips, arch their backs, and set out on their adventures. The great stone, asphalt, cement jungle of the city swallows them, as the forest used to swallow them ages ago. Romeo may crouch in the darkness, making a sound that suggests that a small dynamo is whirring away inside him, watch ing Juliet, who never takes her eyes from his, moving her head

THE TWO-FACED MURDERER BILL BRILL

It is dark and the hour approaches when those interesting little people to me, come into their own—the city cats. In the darkness of alleys, in the unlit gloom of stairways, they sit waiting. Till dawn, they own their city. Their eyes, like the eyes of witches, glitter in archways. Now and again the shrill announcement of a fierce love, or an equally fierce hate, tears the silence like a knife. Little maidenly tabby, big battling ginger, slinky black mother of many families, and great coalblack tiger, they all sit and wait, hunched up at street corners or gently padding around on their little velvet feet. Now! Like a black spring, he launches himself into the darkness, there is a scurry and a fight. He almost missed! He crouches in the dark over his victim, singing a song of triumph that is as old as the hills. He is a complete little savage. A hun dred centuries separate him from himself as he is in the morning, such a perfect little black gentleman tripping along towards his milk, affectionate, almost smiling. He is Jekyll and Hyde. So he guards his kill, giving it a push and growling at it. “Good morning, darling,” says Miss Pringle as she takes off her hat in the morning. “Was he glad to see his mistress again, bless him?” The murderer rubs his head against her knees and goes over to Gladys, who lisps prettily and likes him a lot. Gladys shrieks and holds her skirt tight around her. “Look—look, a wat!” she lisps. “How can he be tho nith and thweet—he’s killed a wat!” There on the floor lies Hyde’s work. But Jekyll is purring fit to burst—the little two-faced tiger. 4

EGOMANIAC'S DESPAIR ROBERT BUCKINGHAM

It is the fate of certain men To fight ’gainst all that’s old To harangue by voice and argue by pen To remove from men’s thoughts the mold To give society something new To attempt to open the narrow minds To succeed not even with a few But only to discover the many kinds Of fools—who with pomposity Proclaim o’er all the land and sea “If ’twas good enough for grandpappy ’Tis good enough for me.” I’ve done my best to make the rest Of the world as wise as I. I’ve tried to bring them up to date (Some are a hundred-odd years late) But they insist on traveling that ancient pace So I give up—they’re a hopeless case.

THE RETURN LUCIE GAULT

The car was speeding through the rain. The headlights re flected in the dark pools of water. An occasional flash of lightning lighted up the lonely countryside. The solitary occupant of the car seemed oblivious to the driving rain, the thunder and light ning. He was humming a gay love song and smiling. He was happy. Very happ3^ For the first time in a month he was happy. He felt like shouting for all the world to hear, “She loves me! I’m going back home! It was all a mistake!” Yes, it had been a mistake. A series of mistakes and misunderstand ings__quarrels that started over nothing, harsh words too quick ly spoken. But that was all over. He was going back now. Earlier in the evening the loneliness had overwhelmed him and he had phoned her. He smiled as he recalled her voice, so soft, so sweet, with tears shimmering around the edges. “Oh, darling,” she had whispered, “please hurry back. We’ve wasted so much time.” And he was hurrying home to her now. The miles slipped by rapidly as the car tore through the curtain of rain. Only a few more miles now—soon he would be on top the mountain and he could look down and see the lights of the town. Yes, there they were. Happy little lights, twinkling in the town below. Behind one of those lights, she was waiting, waiting in their snug little home—their home. His foot pressed harder on the gas pedal. The car swerved around one sharp corner, then another. The third turn—and the car skidded on the wet road, crashed through a guard rail, and hurtled down the steep hill, rolling over and over. There was a terrific grinding and crashing of metal and glass—then silence. 5

A MAIDEN SWEET AND FAIR JOY GUSTIN

I left her at the garden gate A pretty thing to see. I left her at the garden gate And rode on merrily. She stood in clothed simplicity A maiden sweet and fair, Wide-eyed and smiling eagerly, With golden, feath’ry hair. I gave her something at the gate She knew that it was time. Her hand outstreched across the gate, received the gift divine. My work all done, I sighed at last And rode on merrily. The maiden read the letter from Her lover over sea.

LOVE??? MARVIN HUMMEL

There in the lodge by the big, welcoming fireplace, my thoughts were like hot buttered rum—warm, mellow and sati. fying. The exhilaration of threading your way through the obstacles of those bushy white hills with only a pair of thin waxed skis under you—this had been mine today. The great satisfaction of being miles away from tawdry civilization with the only woman you can ever love—this was mine tonight. At last Janet was mine! What more could I desire, what more cculd I need? And the answer came jolting back with a numbing blow that I thought would break my chest. “You’ll need a di vorce from Mary, and Janet will need one from Bill.”

NOVEMBER MARY FRANCES BARNETT

I see the last dead leaves of Autumn fall. Brown skeletons of once verdant life. Surrendering their beauty to the wind’s shrill call. Which heralds Winter’s strife. Ever mounting now, is the fearsome gale, I can hear its plaintive cry, As twisting, swirling, the bleak clouds sail Like omens across the sky. 6

CHARGE OR CASH? JAMES ESCHBACH

They looked very small in the crowd that fanned from the revolving doors from which they had just emerged. Neither John nor Effie had wanted to come into the department store but tomorrow was Janice’s birthday and she had asked for one of those new fangled silk scarves which were in style. Tem porarily bewildered by the size of the store they fortunately drifted in front of the right counter There a breeze of a woman with unshapely lips, emphasized by a sultry shade of lipstick; high, arched, thin eyebrows; heavy costume jewelry, and; an unflattering dress, greeted them. “Good morning, madam. Is there anything that I can do to help you?” “Yes, thank you. I’d like to buy one of those silk scarves like you have on display in the front window.” “Why, yes. Would you care to step this way please? What color was it that you wanted?” “There was a golden brown one in the window that looked rather nice.” “Did you want a long scarf or a square one, dearie?” “I think a square one will be fine.” “Now that’s a shame, honey, ’cause I don’t think we have any square ones in the brown. Just a second, though. I’ll look. I was right, dearie, in fact, there aren’t any brown scarves. We have the blue if you would care to see it.” “Well I don’t think... “You’d look awful nice in blue. It’d go real nice with your eyes.” “It really isn’t for me so. .. “I’ll look and see if we have a blue one in stock. Sure thing. We’re out of the square ones but you’re just lucky we have any at all ’cause they’ve just been selling like hotcakes.” “Perhaps, but I had thought that brown would ...” “Here it is. Isn’t it beautiful?” “It is attractive but I had hoped to get a brown, square one and . ..” “They’re positively a must for the well dressed woman and just a glance will tell that you are one.” “Well, I... “I’m so glad you like it. The manager always emphasizes the fact that we shouldn’t sell our customers anything they don’t want. You know, dearie, I thought at first you weren’t going to like this blue. Charge or cash?” 7

THOUGHTS ON DEATH PHYLLIS DAVIS

I Death is a subject for a poem; A bitter man’s end in oblivion A happy man’s journey into life. II Death is a hush-hush word; It slips through half-closed mouths, It trembles in half-deaf ears. III Death is an idea; It has no substance, It has no form. IV Death is a still night; It comes with the darkness, It makes no sound. V Death is music; A lost chord, A finished symphony. VI Death is a thief; It robs the youth of growing up, It steals the old man’s dreams. VII Death is a rover; It stalks the land. It sails the sea. VIII Death is a clock; Its hands move now. It strikes the hour. IX Death is an entity; A timeless whole, A first, a last, an ever-present thing. 8

TABLE FOR TWO C. G. RECKLEY

He made his way between the tables of the crowded res taurant. Suddenly he spied a table, empty save for a woman. “Pardon. May I sit here?” “These’s plenty of room.” Her smile was delicious. “Oh.” Slowly rosebud lips closed over angel white teeth as she lowered her pretty blonde head to study the menu. At last, she tingled, he’s sitting across the table. What was the name of that song?—Hands Across The Table. Her heart sang. She glanced at his hands holding the menu. Oh, how she longed to have those hands run through her hair, to fondle her. Yes, she agreed with herself, she was desperately in love. “Has madam decided which course she wants?” asked the waitress. “Yes. I think I’ll take the roast beef.” “Yes ma’am.” The waitress wrote on the pad. “And you, sir?” “Give me the same.” His voice was husky as he ejected a cigaret from a crinkly pack. “Smoke?” he asked. “No, thanks,” she said. There, she contemplated, his voice. Did he have a cold? Now that she studied him closer he didn’t look like he was well. Could it be—? But no. she decided. No use in kidding her self. He probably didn’t ever think of her. Her lip quivered. “Here you are,” the waitress breezed, setting two plates on the table. She murmured her thanks. She had thought she was hun gry, but the food tasted stale. She couldn’t eat with him across the table. He wasn’t enjoying his food either. Finally he beckoned the waitress. “Take both checks out,” he said, giving her a bill. After powdering her nose, the girl pushed back from the table. He stood up. “Am I going your way?” “I don’t know,” she smiled. “Fm going home.” “Well—I’m going home too,” he said. .. . “They make a nice looking couple.” Two of the waitresses paused to watch the recent customers leave, arm in arm. “That’s really swell.” “You talk as if you knew them.” “I do” the other said. “They’ve been in here every night since they got their divorce six months ago.” 9

THE OLD CHURCH BELL FRED BEACHLER

A symbol, you say? ah, yes, a symbol with song, A gentle carol of old— A mighty protest to wrong,— In the church tower, high and cold. That bell may hang quiet as death; It may rust and decay without use; It may flash with the fleetness of breath— All the rivers of passion may loose. Now it beckons the wedding hour; Now it tolls the sad march of the dead; Now it clangs with militant power. And rapture, and warning and dread. The church bell laden with song Wakes children from downy beds. And quickens the birds with its gong. And laughs with youth on their sleds. This many-voiced Prophet of God, The noble old church bell will sound. While under the sword and the rod All God’s children rise from the ground. Ah, the bell in the lone turrent there. At even and matins it sings— Above war, hate and death is its prayer. While the hope of all ages it brings.

ON PARTING THOMAS KAREFA SMART

Once I stood by the side of a grave in a far away country churchyard and watched the remains of a close friend lowered into the cold, cold earth, and covered with a load of dirt. As the tear drops, cold and bitter, trickled down my cheeks, and the wailings of parents and loved ones rose in a crescendo to drown the spadesman’s heartless, but inevitable shoveling, a voice, clear and trembling rose from the midst of the solemn crowd, “This is the final parting.” It was not a large group of mourners that gathered out there m the lonely churchyard on that sultry, purple afternoon; when, after the last burial rites it dispersed, all that remained to bear witness of a visit was a wreath of marigolds that adorned a heap of cold, red clay in whose bowels lay encased in a polished casket, a loving son, an endearing friend, and a dutiful brother. 10

I had known him for many years, and for years we were such fast friends. While he lived, and our friendship grew stronger from day to day, we always looked forward to our times of meeting, but never once stopped to pay heed to any sentiments of parting. Parting was too temporary, as far as we both were concerned, to provoke any serious thoughts; too trival to arouse any emotions. We met often by appointment, and parted with out warning, fuss, or ceremony, always. But on that dreary afternoon I found myself turning my back on his cold grave. I soon realized that even if I made a hundred trips back to the little churchyard, I would only find a heap of red sod, marking the spot where we buried him, but would never see him again. The significance of this form of parting, heralded by the cold hands of death, bothered me. It was different from that which comes with the pulling off of a train from a railway station, or the sailing away of a giant ocean liner, in which a dear friend goes on a journey from which he may never return. Standing there on the platform when the train pulls in, or when the liner is still at anchor, my friend and I shake hands, exchange smiles, and finally say good-bye with an embrace and a fondle. We even weep over each other’s shoulder. The part ing hour has come, and reluctantly we withdraw one from the other. The train pulls off, or the ship sails, and time and space separate us forever. The sad experience of such partings is a contagion. A lov ing mother sees the darling baby of another snatched by death, being buried, and she weeps just as she wept when years ago her own darling baby died and was buried. So you too, can hardly stand by a graveside, on the platform of a railway sta tion or by the* quayside and watch two loved ones part, with out shedding a bitter tear for them, poignant with the thought that you too, said good-bye to a very dear friend once, years and years ago. It is now many years ago. You have never heard from him once. You have talked much about him. Not once, however, have you come across a wander-lust traveler who gave you a ray of hope, having chanced on someone who answered your description of him. Still, by faith, you hope. The length of distance and the space of time seem to dig a gulf between you and that friend. The gulf grows deeper and broader as time rolls on. Whether it was separation caused by a planned going away, or that caused by the grim monster death, it has one common name: Parting.

A HOLIDAY OF FUN LOIS FISHER

Again the time is drawing near—that holiday of fun, When Christmas gifts are wrapped with care, and the longest stockings hung. When wreaths in windows lend to all their cheerful, friendly beams. And children fall to sleep at night with sweet and hopeful dreams. But of them all, the greatest joy of Yuletide seems to be When all the family join in to decorate the tree. First father brings inside the tree, which stands six feet or more Figuring how he’s going to squeeze the branches through the door. And mother, meanwhile, has removed the trimmings from their shelves. While all the children, trying to help, run ’round like busy elves. The strings of light come first, of course; these father always handles. And soon the tree is glowing with the tiny colored candles. The ornaments are next, and each is hung with loving care. Everything progresses fine, for each one does his share. Then last of all, around the tree, the icicles are spaced. And at the very topmost branch, a silver star is placed. Thus all too soon it’s finished; the other lights are dimmed. While all the family gathers near the tree they’ve helped to trim.

COLOR SCHEME RUTH MUGRIDGE

I wove my life with lovely hues Of rosy pinks and dusty blues. I saw to it that all my gowns Were docile grays and humble browns. I thought, “Such quiet colors seem To make a pretty color scheme.” And so my pale life was twined With what i though was peace of mind. One day my heart, with wisdom true. Renounced the dainty pink and blue. Rejected spineless browns and grays. Upset the pattern of my days. I must give up—what can one do When one’s own heart rejects sweet blue. And frowns upon the quiet day— And asks for scarlet, not for gray? 12

CHAPEL GERALD J. RONE

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A serious question with institutions dedicated to hi^ê^, learning is: What position shall be taken in regard to ethical instruction? Otterbein has solved her problem. Every Monday,and Tuesday, and Wednesday, and Thursday, ninety nine and for-, ty-four one-hundredths per cent of the student body and faculty move placidly but swiftly from their classes into the •hallowed sanctuary on the corner for instruction and worship. In. the mundane vocabulary of the twentieth century, it is referred-to as Chapel, and I agree with a certain faction that ûqh. â term, is far below the spiritual integrity of this institution.; Indeed, it is questionable in the eyes of some as to whether this short, dedicated portion of the day can ever be given a true name. I have heard many students refer to it on many occasions but for the most part, it has always been under their breath or at such a distance that one might not catch the actual eulogy; only the deeper meaning being sensed. : The idea that there are numerous factions which are opposed to this daily instruction period is absurd; the eagerness, the cooperation, and the attendance of the students will, in any case, disprove any such absurdity. How many times have I not heard a book-laden coed or a star tackle say that they would have to hurry or be late for chapel. It is a common spectacle td see mdhy‘freshmen and upper classmen alike, hurrying across the campus as the college bell chimes out, fegretting'any, pbttion that may have passed in their absence. Each student files in quietly and takes his designated seat, which has been accorded to him by his seniority. This planned seating, dear students, comes from the omniscience of our fore-: fathers who started Otterbein chapel programs. Have you ever thought what would happen if each student did not have his seat and a teller to make certain he retained it? There would be a cascading rush for the few seats in the front rows to gain a desired nearness to the speaker, which would be catastrophie in proportions. Smaller students would be trampled, medium stu dents severely squeezed, and there is no telling what might be the fate of the speaker. Forefathers, we are deeply in debted to you.

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METAPHOR

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WILLIE GARRISON

The wind is a sculptor. The clouds are his clay; He molds them and sets them Aloft for display. 13

RAIN n • t T^ • ,

LUCIE GAULT

rip. Drip! Drip! The monotonous, dull, sound of rain as it

Slips down across the eaves and thuds on the porch roof! It’s

a dreary day. ^ • ^ folks say that a rainy day was meant for staying indoors, for sleeping, or for doing all the little things that are snoved aside when sunshine beckons. I think a rainy day was meant for walking. Oh, I know what you’re thinking! You say that rain is messy that it spoils curly hair and spots stockings, and chills very bones. Well, maybe it isn’t so nice to get all dressed up and then venture out, only to get another shower. ever tried dressing for the rain? A raincoat, some high boots, and something on your head to keep your ears dry— uiat s all that is needed. Don’t you bother with an umbrella. They re more trouble than they’re worth. This walk is to enjoy the rain! There’s something about a rain that stirs the emotions— makes you lonesome for people you’ve never met and places you’ve never seen. Yet, at the same time, rain is comforting. It washes away the troubles from your mind and places a protective wall between you and the world. The wind in your face is a caress, sent straight from Mother Nature. In the spring the rain is alive with the sweet perfume of promise. It washes away the winter soot and paints the earth in green. Walk in the countryside in the spring and see how the rain coaxes a sleeping earth back to life. An autumn rain is different. The air itself has a tingle like week-old cider, and the rain is spicy too. Listen to the first quiet drops of rain as they patter on the fallen leaves. And then, as the rain falls harder, listen to it carefully—could it be singing a lullaby to the earth, to soothe it to sleep before winter comes? Have you ever been in a mountain storm? Where I live, we have them often in the summer. The winds blow up first, and the sky darkens quickly. Then lightning starts its dance along the horizon and the big kettle drums of thunder begin the overture. The stage is set—now the main star appears—the rain! Like a ballet dancer clad in silver, striving to out-do all others, is the rain. It dances wildly, with grotesque gestures. It swirls around madly, and soon is so thick it blurs all vision. With this, there is always the winds, which seem to be trying to surpass the rain, and in the background the lightning and the thunder play their weird music. To walk in a storm is a thrilling ex perience. ^ haven’t convinced you yet—maybe rain to you is still just very wet water which spoils a picnic or prevents a party. In that case, before I leave. I’d like to quote a short poem tor you. I don’t know who wrote it, or where I heard it, but with your kind permission, here it is—just for you! ^n t it jolly to walk in the rain? To chuckle and chortle and talk in the rain? B^raggled and wet from your head to your toe? 14

THE PALISADES "BUCKEYE". '05

The stream that slowly dug the mountain pass Still labors hard to wear away the stones; An asphalt ribbon follows close beside Hugging the slowly crumbling mountain base. High, high above the slanting firs That sparsely struggle up the mountain slope— Above the cold carved mountain side The serried crags, the battlements and towers Show grey and clear in the pure upper air. They stand in chiseled silhouette—silent In shape of men and gods, temples and towns— The whole a silent city, pure and bright. Which men now call The New Jersualem. And everywhere above is quiet and repose And bright majesty. The mountains huge. Rock-based and firm, forever seem to stand And give to all a sense of being rooted down In the eternal—a sense of peace, of strength, Of unperturbed stability, of proud serenity. Near Cody Wyoming, August 1946

THE ONE FOR ME EVELYN ROSE

“Fll have no other,” she said, “But one who is tall and slender. After all, if I’m going to spend all those years with him, I’ll have to look at him, won’t I? And I can’t stand fat or weight!” “I have him all pictured in my mind; black, glossy hair, deep brown eyes fringed with dark heavy lashes. He’ll hold his head high and walk as if he believes in his ambitions and pur pose in life. His carriage will be like that of a king. And his legs will make his height slender and graceful, comparable to those who ran in the Olympic games of Greece. It would be nice if he was from royal family or of, say, old blue blood of Kentucky. Nothing but the best! Bad blood al ways shows up. A girl just can’t be too careful these days! No sir! No one’s going to shove an old broken down nag onto me. I want a good horse!”

SPRING CAPRICE DOROTHY MILLER. '47

There’s As just To hear your Come, Breath

nothing I should like so much to feel your gentle touch; whisper still and low. of Spring, and melt the snow. 15

ELDERBERG IN HESSE WALTER SAPP

In the German Province of Hesse, hidden from the clanging of ii^ustrialism, exists a most picturesque, romatic community. Hesse is a region of great, rolling, wooded hills separated by green pastures and wheat fields. The woods abound with deer, elk, and the ferocious wild boar. The streams and lakes boast trout. The couptryside is adorned with proud, historic castles on the highest peaks. ' The beautiful scenery is not marred with billboards or cnsscrossed with busy highways. It is not even broken by a single farmhouse. For the houses are packed tightly together in little villages. The farmers must go out to the fields which lie around the village, to work. The effect of this centralization of the houses in compact yillages is a striking symmetry in the landscape. The observer can, from any of the castled peaks, see the same picture regardless of the direction in which he looks. He sees neat, cultivated fields, and woods, and the little, rural communities, which appear to be warmly tucked between the hills. Seemingly isolated in this quiet, rural surrounding, is the tiny village of Elberberg. Its cluster of houses is slanted on the slope of a very high, steep hill, the crest of which is mounted with a massive, medieval castle. Uniformity runs through the village scene. For there are no imposing buildings or stores to interrupt the row of two-storied, square wooden houses. They crowd the narrow, winding street so tightly that only a door t ^ step separate the living rooms from the cobblestones. ■•^‘Some of the homes have a stable, for a goat or a cow, built di•T^tly onto them. Stacks and stacks of chopped wood, cut for the coming winter, lean against the sides of all the white houses. ■: Perhaps the most striking difference between this village ■and any American village of similar size is the absence of fillmg stations, soda-fountains, and grocery stores. It is very evipeople are very self-sufficient and very poor. The old-fashioned village is highlighted by the impressive castle which has its own peculiar atmosphere. Its thick, stone narrow, slit windows remind one of the romatic iddle Ages. Original oil paintings warm the stone corridors. 1 iounted deer horns, dating back to the eighteenth century, me the worn; stone staircases. The spacious ballroom is decorated with an intricate chandelier fashioned from antler horns. ., large bedrooms are well furnished with oak furniture, ick carpets, beautiful paintings, and colorful stoves, designed especially for castles. The towering blue, yellow, or wine colored s ov^ are three feet wide and as high as the ceiling, th garden is located in the rear of the castle. In tar ^ lilacs stands a sculptured fountain, an imifamous Mannekin-Pis of Brussels. Foot paths iiicf • downward from the garden to a little pond which lies just in the edge of the woods. 16

The German farmers toil in the fields from dawn to dark. Tanned, blonde headed, muscular, teen-age girls harness the work horses and do heavy chores. The pretty, little, pig-tailed girl plays with her tame geese in the lush meadow at the foot of the hill. The old men, too old and feeble for the heavy field work, bask in the sun. Now and then they put their pipes aside to chop some wood for the stove. Sounds of organ music and childrenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s voices, united in song, come from the little church in the afternoon. On Saturday the women go to and from the communal bake oven carrying trays of cakes and pastry for the Sunday meal. On Saturday evening the young girls put on their best black dresses and hurry down to the bridge at the bottom of the hill to meet the boys who wait for them. The German lads, with their girls, leisurely stroll along the wooded paths. Folk songs echo through the forest. The older people congregate at the inn. Beer drinking, card playing, and more beer drinking, provide the entertainment. But, when Sunday morning comes, the village census could be taken in the little church. These plain, simple folk are happy in their work and in their play even though they realize that the fruits of their labor go to the rich ^ family that lives comfortably in the castle. The pleasant picture of the physical appearance of the village is perfectly and harmoniously complemented by the peasant folk who live in this surrounding. The romatic castle and the hard peasants, fitted in the rural surroundings, present an unusual, picturesque scene of homeÂ liness. The scene is powerful enough to cause the visitor to muse, philosophically, over his conception of human values.

"DRYAD ESTRANGED" JOSEPH S. WISE

Tender nymph. Lissom Lenore, Why did you leave Your green-gladed shore? Sylvan creature. Sylph of delight, Frail blossoms indoors Soon sicken with blight. Ingenuous sprite. Linger no more. Flee now this land Of deceit and dolor. Simple and chaste. Diaphanous maid. Return to the garden Where once you had played. Bucolic babe, Pastoral lass, Go back to your woods And your lakes and green grass! 17

DO YOU REMEMBER PAM POLLOCK

Do you remember a green fir tree And me— And thee— On Christmas?? When it’s time for holly and mistletoe Bayberry candles all aglow, Cozy fire, kettle that sings. Quiet beauty a church bell brings.^— Oh, then don’t you see A green fir tree And me— And thee— On Christmas??

GOLDEN LEAVES CARL VORPE

Golden leaves, yellow leaves. Memory’s mirrored summer eves Never were so lonely. While autumn wind its task achieves And last choice bit of sun retrieves Through two-toned clouds above me— Golden leaves, dying leaves. With lifetime left for yearning Reality seems so far from dreams Of spring, and love returning.

REVERIE KATHLEEN WHITE

T walked, alone, through breeze-swept meadows, But I went to church today And saw in Nature’s quiet splendor The altar where her treasures lay. The hillside was her pulpit And sighing branches formed her choir— From here there came a sermon richer Than lofty words might e’er inspire. And when I turned my footsteps homeward, ihen paused to gaze where I had trod, 1 felt a humble prayer arising— A heart had found its peace with God. 18

BLACK CAVIAR TROY R. BRADY, '45

Ivan was ill at ease. His little finger followed the raised grain of the wood in the bare table. He was the guest of his neighbor, Solokov. Mysterious person, this Solokov! People of the village whispered that he had been in America. Other rumors undulated in the thin air of Ukrainian political talk. But Solokov was wise—he did not speak, except words of common greeting. Why should he invite Ivan to dinner? Ivan looked at the table. There was but one dish upon it. It was heaped generously with black caviar. Even as he looked, his neighbor spoke: “Eat, Ivan. You may have your choice of any dish upon my table.” Ivan was more confused. “But, Comrade Solokov, I see only caviar.” “You are welcome to it,” replied Solokov, softly, “Nay, even more, I insist that you are free to eat it!” “But I do not like caviar.” “I am very sorry. Comrade Ivan, but I am especially fond of black caviar. It is the only food I will have on my table. Only a fool would prefer other foods to caviar. But you are free. Comrade. Eat!” Still bewildered, Ivan arose from the table. He offered apol ogies. He did not wish to offend. Far from it! But he could not eat caviar. When he tried it, he became violently ill. Would Com rade Solokov please excuse him? He went out, hesitatingly pull ing the hewn plank door until the latch fell into place. His heavy boots scraped the flat stone step at the door, further re vealing his confusion. He had a strange feeling! It was as though Solokov would tell him something; something he dared not put into words! Something about Russia—and America.

SUNRISE JEAN SHARE

Pink fingers of the dawn Pierced the greyness of the morn. And cast a glow upon the sea That made my heart leap up in me And give thanks for being born.

SUNSET JEAN SHARE

Gold and crimson clouds Across the evening sky— A glorious prelude to the night And as the sun slipped from my sight I bade the day goodbye. 19

TERSE VERSE C. G. REEKLEY

One bleak night Shades all drawn House all quiet Folks all gone Lights down low Pen in hand Thoughts a-glow Word command Not much time Must compose One short rhyme ’Fore I close Prof will bee Off his hive Wanta skin me Half alive This short verse Ain’t no gem Hope it’s terse Enuf for him.

THAT SIXTH SENSE R. L. BUCKINGHAM

Time—About Twelve midnight Place—Kitchen of the Jones household Scene I—Mr. and Mrs. Jones are in the kitchen having a little bed-time snack when their one and only, little “Stinky” Jones, touseled hair, pajamas and eyes both at half-mast, enters. “Gee Whiz,” says he, “I thought so. Right in the middle of my sleep—Bang!—I heard jelly falling on a cracker.”

DISSONANCE JAMES W. MONTGOMERY

When fate had firmly swept its hand across My harp, and made all life a throbbing roar, The dissonance was blinding. Mine the loss Became and grew, imposing gloom; and more, The vast, recurring diatonic moan Poisoned my soul and left me wondering H I should grow accustomed to such tone. Or if some day, perhaps, my harp might sing. How happily fate reversed itself, for when the splendid music of your heart, My destiny became more clear, and then wsurging, swirling sound depart. ■ With your hand near to touch these strings, my strife is gone. In tune at last. I’ve joy in life! 20

THIS IS SUCCESS CARL SCHAFER

' •‘W

"y-.

It was cold as blazes that night. When Jim and I opened the door marked ...Bijou Theater.. Stage Entrance... the heat sort of rushed over us and our breaths disappeared again. An old guy was sitting on a chair with a couple of rungs missing, read ing “The Musician”. There was a bulb hanging from a wire from the ceiling and it made a big white shiny patch on his partially bald bead. He had a brown unbuttoned vest over his potbelly... .it fitted him smooth and snug. His thighs were flattened out wide on the chair, wrapped tight in old dark grey pants. When we came in, the old guy looked up and said, “Amture try-outs?” kind of half asking and half telling us. . We said “Yeah” rather quickly. I guess we were kind of nervous. Then the old guy walked over to the little elevator and stood there waiting for us. I carried the clarinet and stand and Jim carried the music. Jim being the accompanist, we figured it would be more dignified that way. Between the third and fourth floor I said, “Boy, sure is cold tonight,” but the old guy didn’t say a word. Just stood there. At the seventh floor we got out and walked down a hall to a room jammed with people. u u f The announcer was standing by the door with a bunch oi cards in his hand. I filled out a card and put down my age two vears older than I was, like everybody told me to. We dumped our coats on a pile in the corner and by then the first ones were trying out... I think it was three saxes. When they got done everybody clapped a little just to show they were good sports ... .or maybe they were just trying to show that they were. A middle-aged Italian was next. He sang some Italian songs with gestures and everybody snickered. Then a young girl gets up and takes off a red bathrobe and I see she is clad in tights. She was young all right . .. too young to be spending her time in a place like that. A fellow starts pounding the piano and the first thing you know the girl is tying herself in knots. Finally the kid finishes and she gets a big hand. My turn was next so I took out my clarinet and got ready to play. It was colder than an iceberg and, besides, the pads were wet!^and ;the keys were sticking. People kept walking in front of mev And when Jim hits A, I see that the piano is a half tone flat. I stuck the music on the niano and had to bend over to see it. The piece was one of those French semi-classical.. . the kind of chamber music Canadian stations broadcast afternoons. I did my best with it, but I could tell right away it wasn’t flashy enough. When I finished, I turned to the announcer and said, “O. K.'?” and right away I could have kicked myself for saying it. He Sort of jumped and said, “Yes. You play very well” or some baloney like that. Jim and I put on our coats and left. 21

The elevator wasn’t there and there was no push button so we had to walk down seven flights. When we reached the ground floor we saw the old guy standing there, moping around. Neither of us was in any hurry to go out into the cold so we sort of nosed around, fiddling with our mufflers. We walked into a cubbyhole. . .1 guess it was the old guy’s office... .and picked up “The Musician” and Jim dropped the music on the table and stretched himself out in the chair. Pretty soon the old guy wandered in, looking to see if we were swiping any thing. When he saw the music he brightened up a little and picked it up. I wondered. He talked with a thick German accent. “There is in this number much repetition. The theme is three times repeated. This page you should cut out.” “Yeah” I said. I wondered what he knew about repetition. He looked at me funny. “You think I am ignorant of music?” Then he reached in his pants pocket and drew out a worn red booklet. It said American Assn, of Professional Musicians or something like that. The old guy didn’t have to turn any pages. .. it opened right where he wanted it to. “Here”, he said, “E flat clarinets”. He was pointing out a name to me and it was then that I first noticed his long thin fingers. “Emil Durkheimer. But now I am retired”. And he turned around and walked from the small office. And then it came to me. Emil Durkheimer had played with some of the finest orchestras for many years. I looked at Jim and he looked at me. Neither of us said a word. In about a minute he returned, his face all twisted up. Sud denly I felt mad, and licked and ashamed. He just stood there like that. Then the outer door opened up and a flashy dressed bird comes in with a tenor sax and a clarinet and says, “Top floor, Grampa”. The old guy moved slowly toward the elevator. “Well, g’nite,” I said. Jim and I both looked at the brass pointer that showed where the elevator was. It turned pretty fast till it got to the middle, then it got slower and slower until it finally stopped at seven with a little bump. I thought back to how I had grinned at the old guy when I first came in, and even after the tryout, when he tried to explain to me about my music. Then, darn it, the feeling came over me that I was just a ‘busted bum’, while the clarinet in my hand was nothing more than old lumpy piece of lead pipe.

SUNSET MARY McPEEK

Cool, sweet twilight breezes gently sigh. And strongly buoyant night winds stay their sweep. The brook, the birds, the trees, and even I Pay silent tribute to the velvet sky. 22

YOU'VE GONE AWAY EUGENIA FIGGINS

I passed your house again today, The second time since I’ve been home. I wondered if you’d really leftI can’t believe it’s been so long. You’ve gone away, They say—to stay. They told me that you’d left a noteA note to bid me one last word? I scanned the briefly written lines. And shed my tears alone, unheard. You’ve gone away, I know—to stay.

EASTER BONNET CATHERINE P. BUNGARD. '37

Pale blue straw in halo shape Gauguin pink veiling for the drape Lush pink roses on one side Matching ribbon bowed and tied How could she resist such a creation? Home she came hiding her elation The guy whose money bought the hat Took one look—“Ye Gods! You gonna wear that!’

EPITAPH WILLIE GARRISON

An eagle has fallen. An eagle, proud and strong. Who loved life as he loved the heavens. Has been plucked down and crumpled in the dust. His plumage, splendor in the skies, Provokes hushed sadness and dry tears As it lies, torn and earth-stained, where he fell. A heart whose tomorrows are spent Can only look back And smile a sad smile And remember Young huntsman Whose virgin shield has never tasted foeman’s blood Has left a scar on our hearts where he fell. The birds have lost a comrade; We have lost a son; The sky is empty; The clouds dull; | ‘ An eagle has fallen. , • • 23

ADVICE TO KITEFLYERS RUTH MUGRIDGE

A heart must be treated as though ’twere a kite, Given long lengths of cord and much freedom in flight, Allowed to roam freely, yet not out of sight. And even to h?.ve an occasional fling. But ail you beginners, remember one thing. Keep film, steady hands on the end of the string.

THOUGHTS OF GRADUATION NEVIN J. RHODES. '47

Four years of college seemed an eternity to me when I graduated from high schood. So, like a lot of others, I decided to work. Now, fourteen years after that high school commencement, l am anticipating my bachelor degree this June. In those years since high school, I could have gone to college three times and had enough years left over to get graduate degrees. Fortunately, I did get a taste of real college life. That one year spent at a little church school in Virginia was one of the happiest of my life. I lived on five dollars a month and enjoyed every minute of it. It was hard to take when I discovered that it was not pos sible to continue my schooling the next year. Then came a tough grind of full time work and night school, followed by armed service. It hardly seems possible that I will soon receive a college degree gained through attendance at two colleges, three night schools, one correspondence school and an army officer candi date school. In June I will be marching in the robed line of graduating seniors made up of older vets like myself and proud boys and girls who hardly seem grown up. In a way I feel sorry for those in the line who have never worked on a steady job before—both vet and youngster. I would like to loan them some of my practical experience—ten years of it. It s something worthwhile and to be desired when the em ployment manager begins to ask questions. But they have something that I will never get again—a fresh try at experience and the first step on the ladder to suc cess. They are doing the job of living in the right manner—the way my children will do it if I can give them a chance. Yes, this June I am graduating—but ten years late. 24

ONLY GOD JOY GUSTIN

Only God Can know my thought, Can see Into my heart. Only God Can give me life And love To feed Only God Can keep me pure. His will I make my own. Only God Can take my life And keep Eternally My soul.

I SING A NEW SONG PHYLLIS DAVIS

I told myself— This is the one string I have not touched— This is the string whose tone is death. I have played the others so long that I have become a master; I hate, I despise their commonplace melodies. They are so familiar to me that I sicken at their sound. I want the thrill of a new song—different, dangerous. To be so I know its other element must be death. , . , + i And so I lifted my hand to strike the note whose sound is fatal. My hand still poised, I glanced once more at life, And a melody not of my own playing Came to me from someone else’s trained fingers. Strange I had not heard it before— It was new to me, and yet it was not death. I strained to listen, to feel its meaning. And my lifted hand fell, directed by that other being To the strings which called forth a song to life. While still I hear others play their melodies to life. And know that I have not mastered all the tunes but one, I will make my knowledge grow, my songs increase, my life sing. The other string is useless to me; I will cast it off, destroy it. So that another will not come upon it. And ignorant of the unplayed tunes. Strike it and lose his power to sing.

LINES TO A JANUARY DAY SYLVIA J. PHILLIPS. '47

Mists with their long fingers Slip in and away Gray Like the sky Like the day. Snow flakes begin, one or two in my sight While the somnolent film Dissolves in the white, And the world is reduced to a swirling throngâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; One (Is it wrong?) Knowing me not. I walk on and on And a flake here and there Caught in my hair fast to my face Melts in the warmth of a human embrace. Unsought for Ungiven Just coming about Quite without plan (Is it right?) Having once let a snowflake remain on my cheek Till it warmed itself out To melt like a tear And fall from my face Can I say I have cried? I have not even tried. Words full of disgrace Rise unbidden, uncalled Like startled wild ducks. First with one, then with few, then with all Till the wind and the snow and the mist (And the few flakes Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve kissed) Are no more But a roar in my ears And a quickening pulse. And a laugh like an echo That beckons ahead Through the fast-closing door On through the silence To what was before. Having once let a stillness possess my swift tongue Till it faltered my limbs 26

Till it rationed my soul And fell from my heart Can I ever be whole? Can I say I have died? With majesty dimmed But searing inside— Can I say I have lived? I have not even tried.

THE QUITTER BILL BRILL “Quitter-r-r! ”

About a dozen schoolboys, their sweaters and jackets thrown on the ground, stood in a vacant lot, shouting the shrill taunt. Each stood in position for a game of rounders. All were look ing in the direction of the quitter, whg was walking toward me with a defiant air. , The quitter was small—smaller than any of the otners and his hair was mussed. His chunky, scratched, not too clean legs were in shorts, which at one time might have been navy blue. He struggled to get his sweater over his head. ^^SissV"G"0'"G!

Again the taunt came, ringing through the air. The quitter clenched his fists a little tighter. His mouth sagged; his round red face looked bitter, and his eyes glowed. He was m a rage. Perhaps he wanted to go back and fight them all, but they were so big, and besides, there were more of them. “Go on home, mamma’s boy!” came the sing-song chant. The quitter, sissy and mamma’s boy stepped down in the gutter and kept on walking without looking back. , ^ . Wonder what had happened? Had they refused to let him bat? He may have been in the right! As I watched the srnall indignant figure come down the street, I didn’t care, for he had all my sympathy. Haven’t we all picked up our sweaters and said, “I quit,” and haven’t we all flinched inwardly at the rythmic chant that followed us? .uA trivial, every day sight, but say what you like, this little fellow, walking away with dignity, was the essence of drama: struggle, man against man; defiance, a perfect rebel. Had I seen less clearly into his heart, I might have been one of those well-meaning idiots who stop and ask: “What s the matter sonny? What did they do to you?” No! Never! He walked slowly, aimlessly; kicking at a stone in the gut ter. As he drew near, I saw two enormous tears rolling down his cheeks. He was sniffing hard to keep others back, but his head was erect and his shoulders were set. He kept on walking in solitude; away from compromise or surrender. I studied him as he approached, and a feeling of pity surged through me. Then, as he passed by, that feeling suddenly left, and I couldn’t help smiling, for in one hand he carried the ball, and in the other, the bat. 27

SYMPHONY OF LOVE PHYLLIS KOONS, '45

I sit alone, my thought on thee, Yet not alone, for Music dwells Within, and through its melody Your everlasting love it tells. The soft low tones become your voice, us warmth and depth possess my soul. a step; each ohrase, a bridge inat brings me closer to my goal. The swaying movement becomes your hands Caressing, soothing, smoothing my brow, ihe haunting theme is like your eyes, fheir mystery is clearer now. The tempo quickens; I’m in your arms. Your lips meet mine and the spell holds fast. rythm beats in my ears As Music brings me you at last.

JUST A CIGARETTE KENNETH KLINE

I m just a little cigarette. Why be afraid of me? You read in all the papers that I m harmless as can be.

Hank Greenberg and Stan Musial Just think I’m simply grand. And all the famous doctors say They have their favorite brand. Just try me once, that’s all I ask. Then try to let me go. 111 stain your fingers, taint your breath, You’ll wish you had said “No.” But now, alas, it is too late. For ever since we’ve met,

You’ve found you just can’t get along. Without your cigarette. VALUES CHARLES H. GILBERT

^uder the terrible push of book, pen and prof, We children of scholarily bent, do stumble in the wilderness Of sought truth, knowledge, and for things proven; And yet one great truth, we do miss:

lo know a little less and understand a little more. 28

PHYLLIS WOULD UNDERSTAND ROBERT C. LITELL

Brad stood in the line at the theater waiting his turn at the ticket window. You got used to queues after two years in this country. Yeah, you got used to a lot of things! Finally he got his tickets and sat down. An old Gloria Swan son picture was playing. Brad didn’t care though. Brad was on a pass and he had to do something to pass away the time. “Do you like her?” said a voice beside him. Brad looked over at the owner of the voice. At first he couldn’t see. Why, it was a young woman sitting beside him! Brad 'was lost for words. Finally, feeling the necessity of answering the girl he grunted. “Sometimes.” Brad looked at the girl and suddenly he knew the pangs of hunger. No, not normal hunger, but the hunger of loneliness, the hunger of being without female companionship. Brad strug gled for something to whisper to the girl to keep her interested, something that he could base a new friendship on. He failed The show went on to the inevitable end and he got up to go. The girl beside him got out and fell in beside him. Bemre they .got to the door the theater played a recordmg of Save The King.” If it hadn’t been for the restraining ' ?d of the girl he would have gone right on, but she grasped his arm and whispered; “It’s yours, too, you know.” The girl had a musical little laugh. Fact was she was quite pretty. Brad felt the hunger grow within him. Forgive me, Phyllis, it’s been so lon^ When the last strains of the music had finished. Brad ana the girl went out together. Brad offered her a cigarette but she shook her head in refusal. „ j u “What can we do?” he asked her as they walked by the bombed-out ruins. . ^ “The pubs are closed. There’s no theaters nere like in Lon don. Let’s just walk.” she answered. As they walked along they talked of many things. She told him she was married and that her husband worked in Lon“I am trying to get a divorce but it takes so much. I only make five pounds a month and it’s so hard.” She turned her face to him. Brad felt a warm wave run through him. Then he thought what she had said.. . five pounds a month.. .It’s so hsrd“Sometimes I wonder whether I love or hate England.” burst out Brad. “Why?” “I don’t know. Maybe because it’s the first foreign country I’ve ever been in, maybe because I can’t go when I want to. I don’t know.” “The English girls will miss you boys when you go home.” She answered with a far-away look in her eyes. “Why do you say that?” 29

to understand “'why,

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, ooked at the handsome American paratrooper to see if he were laughing at her. No, he wasn’t lathing at all' nf was hSt®of”h:rh^ r''a' interested in®her v^? She In Encla^H a H'3w different these Americans were, rp^ ,, doesn t have opinions of her own! the beaiTtv of th m silence. The big paratrooper taking in Lirl s?lpntK°! - unspoiled countryside, and the pretty English fhere was^nZ‘T"8 '^^at life might have been*^^ . For a4ile road ’The °f their shoes on the hard-packed babv bpin£T^K^°^^^ on—Somewhere in this world another riaPP pprpr^^lf^ born, a robbery was being committed, a mar tini <;nipirlp ^11 performed, a human being was commitSomehow^ttrl^ through the mind of Brad, bomehow these things didn’t matter. He knew one thing one man®and'’h™wfs happ‘y " walking with a woeert^nW wmdri^’V"^ Phyllis back in Ohio waiting for him. She Tbpn Viic +V. approve of him being out with another girl. “dI vn„ ° interrupted by the soft voice of Marie; ^ ‘Xj t approve of you walking with me?” an<;wprpH ^ Would. But she’d understand, “he answered. How far is it yet?” I live just around the bend now. It’s not very far.” Iv hp looking at her questionly be said; Let’s sit down here for awhile.” awhilp^^npHvf^ Brad laid his trenchcoat and for tude wac fp of them spoke. This moment of rest and solimortal Tti ° P^^^ious to be broken bv the utterance of a mere a liftlp setting and as they watched, Marie gave head on around her and she leaned her R?aH lu Please forgive me Phyllis. a thin a Other nights in Ohio; it was the same, not a thing was different, not a thing! his tun^c^^^ thing its so awful wrong?” Marie whispered into No, it s not wrong.” answered Brad. brapp over and kissed her. Marie answered his emNn it innocence that surprised him. Brad was happy. iNo, It wasn t wrong. Rrarl

P^^l

of PViviu dusty road leading to his barracks thinkwrong! ^Hell, it wasn’t “Got any gum chum?” querried the first. RraT came the next prompt question. tn u1''^° pennies each to the lads and started lo proceed on his way. 30

“What time is it chum?” “Ten o’clock.” answered Brad. “Golly, we got to be gettin’ along.” proclaimed the larger boy. Brad walked through the gate and was about to proceed to his barracks when he noticed a light in the messhall. He w^ked over toward it. The O. D. was there with a flashlight. Brad walked in. , z-v r> “Coffee and cream on the table there.” said the u. u. Brad stumbled over to the table and took a canteen oi coffee. He was standing there drinking it, and thinking when the O. D., a really nice second lieutenant, asked him; Anything new in town?” “No,—nothing new. It’s about the same.” Brad put down the canteen, and opening the dooi^ walKea out into the night air. The stars twinkled and winked at him in the crisp, April air. Brad stopped and looked up in the sky and suddenly—Brad rubbed his eyes! It couldn’t be—but, it was. “No, Brad it wasn’t wrong!” . , With this the image of Phyllis faded from the night sKy. Where she had been a star fell, then another, the Brad walked like a new man into the barracks. Within tive minutes after he lay down he was sleeping with a clear conSomewhere in the world two lovers quarreled, fought, and broke up. Somewhere in the world two lovers made up. bomewhere in the world a lover lost his temper, in a fit of passion struck and killed his girl. Somewhere in the world a priest was saying the last rites to a condemned man. But, in the town of Southhampton, England there were two people sleeping with peace of mind; with no guilt, no shame, because, you see, Phyllis would understand .. .

COMPASSION FOR THE MULTITUDE FREDA KIRTS SHOWER. '27

We read how He went through the countryside. . . Preaching the Word and making sick men whole; Healing the wounds of the body and aches of soul As He passed through crowds, saw hearts dissatisfied We know, with pleading agony, they cried. . . Those suffering ones—disease had taken toll; It was His joy to help them reach the goal Of health, that worthy living might abide. We must draw closer to the mercy-seat To feel compassion for the multitude. . . The multitude—they suffer and they wait. Close, yes, and closer to hear the throb and beat Of the great heart of God. He will give food And every need. We open wide the gate. Reprint from Dream Shop, Winter, 1945-46. 31

TWENTIETH CEHTURY SAGA R. L. BUCKINGHAM

I saw a man upon a peak— He looked so strong and mighty there. When he spoke, the earth trembled And men were afraid. The mountain’s sides were crowded with people Pushing and fighting to get to the top. The press was great, and many were hurt. Some were thrown to the rocks below And others only climbed so far—and stopped, Satisfied to be where they were. And above them all the mighty man Looked down and laughed with scorn. And dared them one and all To contest that peak with him. I started up the mountain, too; I began the long, hard climb; I fought and bargained, lied and cheated; I bought and sold; I ruined men. A few I pulled along with me, The rest I trampled in the dust. Suddenly I saw the mighty man One step above me yet. We battled on that misty peak. The mighty man and I, Eut I was young and he was old— He fell into oblivion. I am at the top now. Looking down at the contemptible throng. Lut somewhere in that turmoil Another has started his journey, His eyes upon this peak, And in his mind he reserves for me_ Oblivion.

KNEES ROSEMARY JACKY

Little boy’s knees are certainly indispensable parts of the anatomy. E)id you ever consider their importance? Every little boy uses his knees in all the games in which he participates. Before shooting a marble he examines carefully IS opponent’s position. This is done from a precarious stand on one knee. In playing football he must have knees on which to tall occasionally. And leap-frog couldn’t even exist if children had no knees to cover with grass stain. A fella’ has to take great precision in boarding his coaster wagon. One knee must be in just the correct position—not too far front or too far back, in order to gain the maximum momentum. Without his knee he would have to pull the wagon by the handle! 32

Sometimes one doesn’t appreciate his knees. This feeling may arise when he is hurrying to “catch up with the gang and a stone gets in the way and down he goes. If he is very little he will run, crying for mamma to fix it, but if he is a “little man” he’ll probably limp home “for a glass of water not willing to admit that knee needs repair. “Knees can cause a guy plenty of trouble,’ I heard a chap say. “They get even dirtier than behind my ears! night before tumbling into bed they have to be scrubbed. who likes to scrub knees! Besides, scrubbing them isn t a . Just about the time you finish, mom comes in and gasps at t e condition in which you’ve left the lavatory and the washc o . “A boy should learn how to be neat when he is young, she reiterates. So—you clean up the bathroom, all on accoun o your knees. . - , __ tt_ It’s a big day when a son gets his first pair of ^ doesn’t understand why mother cries just because e up his knees. After all a kid can’t go around with his knees pro truding at strange angles all his life. He s as proud as p to walk beside his dad, dressed just like him. Mother, later often wishes her son s knees would stay in side his pants instead of insisting on showing throug ..i cornered rip. It’s strange, but he never knows how it possibly could have happened. Those tears just come. rtr-nwintr nn Knees are basis of dreams built by boys who They can be crossed most elegantly m company. They can a newspaper in just the correct position and ey rubbed with that good smelling Imament that is kept on the top shelf. At present, however, they just dangle in all sorts of positions and all types of angles. nf a littlp Knees are most loved by mother when i^wn fella’s day, he kneels beside his bed to pray, Now I lay me d to sleen—”—Tears mav come to mother’s eyes but they are tLiVoFjoy and thankfulness for a little boy with shiny freshscrubbed knees.

THE DARKEST HOUR JANET L. ROBERTS, '46

The drenching rain, since five o’clock that day, Had silvered sombre night. Dawn crept, afraid to loose a careless ray The rain would sponge from sight. Then sky, relenting, must have called its name. And passport given to one. To send a single dazzling shaft of flame On vovage from the sun. It flashed across the river straight to me. And touched me with its glow. Oh, sky, didst send a messenger to see If my dark way I know? 33

HOW WAS I TO KNOW? MARCELLA HENRY. '28

Would you like to see the steers?” they said, And of course, I said I would, Then I asked a civil question As every true guest should: Do you get much milk from every steer, Ur are some not quite so good?” Then all their faces looked quite queer they turned to where I stood; These steers are not the same as cows,” _ they very gently said, then I remembered Freud and Jung , ^nd did my face get red! Of course,” I cried, “How dull of me, after all the books I’ve read, I see they have two cuckold horns symmetric on their head.” my surprise and rout all my reason scorns) When recently I first found out that all bovines have horns!

ON FINDING A TEACUP JIM ESCHBACH

, . j

it lay, nestled down between the blades of grass, with the early morning brilliance of the freshly planted GW. i picked it up and admired the childish beauty of a brighty painted toy teacup. A flick of my finger proved to me that it as tin as I had suspected, and my mind wandered back to the youngest sister received her first set of toy dishes, ty, she was proud of those dishes. When they had been pioperly displayed to the entire neighborhood she had gathered em in her skirt and had hustled them off to “play house.” anny, from two houses north, was the “Papa,” of course my sister was the “Mama,” and the other children of the neighborood temporarily became their “children.” Always the dishes were the center interest of the group. When “guests” came, ea was served; when they left, preparations were made for more guests or for a coming meal. And so it went. From morn ing to night there were meals and guests, and at night when my SIS er was ready for bed she polished each piece until no Stor ing ever looked as fine. Her dimpled fingers handled the dishes back to their “lived-in” look and then off to bed, and into the cupboard went the dishes that they might store up energy for rough handling on the next day. TL following Christmas my sister got a new set of dishes, ihey were real glass and a priceless treasure. Immediately the old ones were discarded and left to rust, much as this one had been. 34

I took the teacup home and when once filled with dirt I stuck in a sprig of ivy. I placed it in a southeast window there it sprouted and stretched forth as if the small child that had once fondled the tin cup now urged on the ivy to a stronger vine. I went to see my younger sister this morning. The hour was early and the fog clung to the hollows as a frightened child c mgs to his mother. , ^, I sped on my errand, for I had but little time, and I press to my heart the purpose of my journey—the teacup. As ed the knoll, a new feeling entered my heart as if I were doing some great thing. , ii j ^ There she lay, her angel peering up through the oj^des ot grass, shining with early morning splendor, and there p the teacup.

ENIGMA PAM POLLOCK

How young I am And oh how light my heart! ’Til suddenly,... .1 see The sorrow of an evening sky And all the grief I’ve never known,. .. descends Envelopes me... . ’Til old and weary,.. .from pain That is not mine I lift mv voice in anguish to the sky. .. .

THE CYNICS PHYLLIS DAVIS

Behold, this Dreamer cometh. Look upon his eyes— They see us not. Perhaps his regard is on Some vision more fair— But why the pain, the struggle In his gaze? Does he not know the Peace he seeks Cannot be real While we are blind And look not on life With the Dreamer’s eyes? Then why dream— Green Pastures in the distance? For we will build stone walls And dare the Dreamer to climb, Then dash his feet to the ground. Put out his eyes. And make him one of us.

3.5

EPHEMERA CATHERINE P. BUNGARD, '37

A snatch of a song. A . j ^ (whistle it again and I’ll get the words) A scented atmosphere... A + IT 1 (hold my coat and I’ll reach those lilacs) ys a lized moment that comes back unbidden rpii . (the roaring surf., .the troubled moon) e same setting can call up another mood With poignant brief intensity. 4

IDLE HANDS RAQUEL RODRIGUEZ

Like sunshine without rain Like roses without dew Like joy without pain Like life without you. Like stars without skies Like seas without lands Like a God without power Thus, too, are idle hands.

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THE THRESHING MACHINE MARY FRANCES BARNETT

lorig procession of wagons, terminating at my grand father s farm, began quite early that morning. Sensing the ex citement of the occasion and eager to test my feeling of un known adventure, I slid out of bed and dressed quickly. Down stairs, somewhere in the spacious kitchen, grandmother was fuming and fretting among a seething mass of housewives. There were already glimpses of ham, chicken, berry pies, and garden truck which I hastily scanned on tiptoe. I was completely un noticed. But somehow, I didn’t mind. There was something wonderful ahead for me. Of this I was certain. I could feel it. Grabbing an unprotected peach from the sideboard, I hur ried on out into the morning air. The men, were idly stretched out on the grass. They seemed to be waiting for some new force to urge them on. I was waiting too. Suddenly, the sound of a far-off whistle drifted across the meadow; there was a stir among the men, and finally one of them pointed. It was then I saw her—Slowly, cautiously rounding the bend and making her way up the river road. I detected some thing jumpy in my throat, and with the dripping remains of the forgotten peach still clutched in my hands, I watched her turn into our lane. It was then she saw me—and whistled, this greeting could only have been meant for me alone, for it said, “Hello, little friend. I am not the fearsome devil that you think 36

I am, and I’m here to spend the day with you.” To me, she was no longer a ponderous, foreboding mass of black wheels and belts, but a living, breathing personality, possessing a soul. I waved, and we were friends. + All day long I stood by her as she ate. It took some thirty men, all working at break-neck speed to satisfy her cravings. In fact, she ate continuously, stopping only now and then to beicn forth smoky puffs of ecstasy into the already dusty air, Ir^art of the grain, however, must have been distastful to her, tor s e spewed forth a great mountain of shiny yellow grew and grew as the day wore on. Suddenly, grandfather and the men looked weary, but contented. They had nothing left to feed her. I was reluctant to see my strange new friend ever, I felt the time had come—as it does with all changed parting farewells, and she went away, grumbling little, as laboriously as she had come.

A SECRET MABEL-JO MOZIER SADLER. EX. '33

It’s clothes and dishes; it’s mops and hose, What does it get me, do you suppose. Red, rough hands An aching back A few gray hairs A life of trouble and work and woes. What’s that I hear? A door knob’s twist? The family’s home? , . , t Red hands you say! Do you think When love and laughter await me there.

PEACE WILLIE GARRISON

“Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray”—he paused to peep To see if I was standing there. And then continued with the prayei. His wee small voice was scarcely heard, But still I felt each uttered word. It wasn’t like a church-school prayer That had you squirming in your chair; But just enough that made it do: “Bless Mother, Dad, and Brother, too. Then climbed into his trundle bed Which gathered ’round his curly head. The Moon shone in its silvery beams And closed his eyes in peaceful dreams. 37

TABLE OF CONTENTS Club Members_________________________________

Prize Winners_____________________________________________

Foreword To Poems, James W. Montgomery_____________

Carefree, Pam Pollock_____________________________________

Alchemy, Ruth Mugridge_________________________________

The Two-Faced Murderer, WilliamBrill____________________

Egomaniac s Despair, Robert L. Buckingham_______________

The Return, Lucie Gault___________________________________

A Maiden Sweet And Fair, Joy Gustin_____________________

Love???, Marvin Hummel_________________________________

November, Mary Frances Barnett_________________________

Charge Or Cash?, James Eschbach_______________________

Thoughts On Death, Phyllis Davis_________________________

Table For Two, C. G. Reckley_____________________________

The Old Church Bell, Fred Beachler_______________________ 10 On Parting, Thomas Karefa Smart__________________________ 10 A Holiday Of Fun, Lois Fisher____________________________ 12 Color Scheme, Ruth Mugridge_____________________________ 12 Chapel, Gerald J. Rone____________________________________ 13 Metaphor, Willie Garrison_____________________ ^__________ 13 Rain, Lucie Gault_________________________________________ 14 The Palisades, “Buckeye”, ’05______________________________ 15 The One For Me, Evelyn Rose______________________________ 15 Spring Caprice, Dorothy Miller, ’47________________________ 15 Elderberg In Hesse, Walter Sapp__________________________ 16 Dryad Estranged, Joseph S. Wise___________________________ 17 Do You Remember, Pam Pollock____________________________ 18 Golden Leaves, Carl Vorpe________________________________ 18 Reverie, Kathleen White___________________________________ 18 Black Caviar, Troy R. Brady ’45____________________________ 19 Sunrise, Jean Share______________________________________ 19 Sunset, Jean Share_________________________________________ 19 38

TABLE OF CONTENTS 20 Terse Verse, C. G. Reckley-------------- ------------------------------That Sixth Sense, R. L. Buckingham-------------------------------- 20 Dissonance, James W. Montgomery--------------------------------- 20

So This Is Success, Carl Schafer----------------------------------------Sunset, Mary McPeek------------------------------------------------------You’ve Gone Away, Eugenia Figgins----------------------------------

21 22 23

Easter Bonnet, Catherine P. Bungard, ’37-------------------------- 23 23 Epitaph, Willie Garrison--------------------------------------------------24 Advice To Kiteflycrs, Ruth Mugridge------------------------------Thoughts Of Graduation, Nevin J. Rhodes, ’47-------------------- 24 25 Only God, Joy Gustin----------------------------------------------------25 I Sing A New Song, Phyllis Davis------------------------------------26 Lines To A January Day, Sylvia J. Phillips, 47 27 The Quitter, William Brill----------------------------------------------28 Symphony Of Love, Phyllis Koons, ’45---------------------28 Just A Cigarette, Kenneth Kline----------------------------------------28 Values, Charles H. Gilbert----------------------------------------------Phyllis Would Understand, Robert C. Littell-------------------- 29 Compassion For The Multitude, Freda Kirts Shower, ’27— 31 Twentieth Century Saga, R. L. Buckingham---------------------- 32 Knees, Rosemary Jacky---------------------------------------------The Darkest Hour, Janet L. Roberts, ’46-------------------- -

32 33

How Was I To Know?, Marcella Henry, ’28----------------------- 34 On Finding A Teacup, James Eschbach----------------------------- 34 Enigma, Pam Pollock-------------------------------------------------------- 35 The Cynics, Phyllis Davis-------------------------------------------------- 35 Ephemera, Catherine P. Bungard, 37-------------------------------- 36 Idle Hands, Raquel Rodriguez------------------------------------------- 36 The Threshing Machine, Mary Frances Barnett------------------- 36 A Secret, Mabel-Jo Mozier Sadler, Ex. ’33-------------------------- 37 Peace, Willie Garrison------------------------------------------------------- 37