Quiz and Quill 1959

/T V

Q UIZ

40th Anniversary Number Published by The Quiz and Quill Club

of Otterbein College •

THE STAFF

Editor-in-Chief....................................James Nuhfer Assistant Editors .........................Beverly Easterday Francine Thompson Business Manager.................................. Lew Shaffer

Spring, 1959

Founded, 1919

THE QUIZ AND QUILL CLUB - 1958-59

President .......................................................................... Lew Shaffer ’59 Vice President........................................................... Bernard Lieving ’59 Secretary-Treasurer .............................................Francine Thompson ’59 Program Chairman ....................................................Bernard Lieving ’59 Faculty Sponsor...................................................................... Robert Price Alumni Relations Committee ....... .............................Cleora Fuller ’53 Mary Thomas ’28 Ethel Steinmetz 31 Thomas Buckingham 59 Julia Nicholas ’59 Amelia Caulker ’59 James Nuhfer ’59 Beverly Easterday ’60 Duan Roth ’59 Blanche Gehres ’60 Lewis Shaffer ’59 Donna Taylor Hitt ’58 Patricia Sliver 59 Bernard Lieving ’59 Patricia Speer 60 Earl Newberg ’60 George Stump ’59 Francine 'Thompson ’59 Honorary Members

Mrs. Mary W. Crumrine

Mrs. Hazel H. Price Walter Jones

Literary Awards Freshman Poetry Contest

Third Prize.............................................................. Linda M. Tischler ’62 Freshman Prose Contest

Third Prize

John Soliday ’62 Quiz and Quill Poetry Contest

First Prize ..........................................................................Sue Beatty ’60 Second Prize..............................................................Audrey Springer ’6l Third Prize ...................................................................... Lew Shaffer ’59 Quiz and Quill Prose Contest

First Prize......................................................... Rosemary Richardson ’6l Second Prize .................................................................. Walt Vernon ’61 Third Prize (tie) ........................ Amelia Caulker ’59, John Payton ’59 Dr. Roy A. Burkhart Poetry Contest

First Prize.........................................................................John Payton ’59 Second Prize............................................................Linda M. Tisdiler ’62 Third Prize (tie) .....Blanche Winifred Gehres ’60, James Nuhfer ’59 COVER BY LARRY KANTNER ’60 Two

MR. LINCOLN'S EYES John Payton ’59

First Prize, Roy A. Burkhart Poetry Contest His eyes seem sunken deep within his face— Kind eyes burned deep by cannons’ acrid smoke, The slaughters of the blackened battle fields.

Loud cries of pain and anguish deafening him.

And thoughts of wandering children starved and cold.

The dirt, the blood, the mangled bodies’ stench— The prisons bulging with the sick and dead— Old men, young boys that trudged both North and SouthTorn Blue, stained Gray that will not rise again— His eyes reflect a nation torn in half.

The burden of his brothers, black and white.

Crush heavy on his tired, bending back.

He stumbles, slips, and gasps for friendly hands.

But still men cry and cannon shake the ground.

His eyes numb, glassy, staring, see no end.

;

,

TOP OF THE MOUNTAIN ROSEMARY RICHARDSON ’61

First Prize, Quiz and, Quill Prose Why do people climb mountains?

Many mountain climbers have been asked this question. There have been answers, but what was mine?

The first time I saw the Teton Mountain Range in Wyoming, I wanted to get to the top of the Grand Teton. Why? What was there for me? Maybe that’s why I wanted to go, to see what was on top.

After three years of just looking, my opportunity came. My parents consented to let me go, and I had the money to pay for the guide. We spent two days at Climbing School, learning the techniques of "belaying,” "rappelling,” and all the others.

I went down to see Mr. Exuum, head of the guides, and was informed that I could go up with a party the next day. I was given a list of the food I should take—for this was a two-day trip—and the equipment. This included packs, climbing boots, gloves, clothes and hat. The sleeping bags, ropes, sling ropes, and karabiners were furnished by the guide service and included in the guide fee.

The next morning, pack on my back, my parents bade me a fond farewell at the Lupine Meadows, and we were off. There were six in our party: Bill Byrd, our guide; four fellows, all experienced in climbing; and me, the greenhorn.

We hiked at a slow steady pace for the first sbc hours and then stopped beside an icy mountain stream for our lunch. Once again we were on our way. We had left the trail by this time and were climbing on the "scree” toward the lower saddle where we would make camp for the night.

Three

It seemed as though the pack was getting heavier and heavier, and oh, for a drink of water! Finally when I was sure I couldn’t take another step. Bill called a rest.

"How are you holding up, little Red Cap?” Since I was tlie only girl and as green as grass about climbing, t'ne fellows hadn t accepted me as one of the group, but by this time they must have decided I wasn’t such a bad sport after all, and began to tease me.

We hiked on for another hour and came to the first climbing to be done by rope—a fixed rope in the rock—and up we went. Then we were there, at the base camp and the base of the mountain. It certainly looked huge. Seven hours of a hard hike, 5,000 feet almost straight up, but we were there.

For supper we had community soup; everyone had brought a can of soup which was all mixed together. You would be surprised how good vegetable, chicken noodle, mushroom, and tomato soup taste mixed up—or maybe we were just hungry.

It was getting colder. We had donned extra clothes, for me a T-shirt, two sweaters, a wool shirt, and jacket but I was still cold.

Then it was time to turn in for the night.

The moon was out, millions of stars dotted the dark sky, and there against the sky was the silhouette of the mountains. The wind was howling and tearing across the saddle. It was a wonderful night to sleep, but who could sleep with such an exciting day ahead?

1 had just dropped off to sleep, or so it seemed, when the alarm went off, 4:00 in the morning.

It was still cold and the sun as yet had not risen as we made our way from the Guides’ Cave, a hollow place dug beneath a big boulder, to the sleeping bags of our fellow climbers.

"Up and at them, boys!”

We all had a cup of hot chocolate, our last drink for six hours, and once again were on our way, this time not to stop until we reached the summit of the mountain.

We climbed for an hour, and then reached a point where we had to rope ourselves together. Here we started around Wall Street, the ledge which is 70 feet wide at its start and then narrows to nothing.

When we reached this point, we either climbed up or fell 1500 feet.

Bill, the guide, was first on the rope, I next. No casualties! We were all over the first step. Then finally, the summit.

From the top there were eleven lakes visible, four states, and the tops of the other mountains in the range. We spent an hour at the peak and then started down.

Possibly the most exciting moment in the whole climb was the rappell—150 feet down. My heart was in my mouth as I put on my rope sling and wound up in the fixed rope. It was a frightening thing to walk to the edge of a 150-foot drop and jump off backwards, but once on the way down I lost all my fears, relaxed, and just enjoyed the "ride.”

The trip down was much shorter; we were all silent, thinking over the wonderful climb and the sights we had seen.

Four

Why did we climb the mountain?

Perhaps the most thrilling experience is reaching the top, and one’s fellow climbers turn to him with outstretched hand and say, "Good climb.” There is a feeling of closeness to each other and to one’s Maker.

Is that the answer? Do people climb to feel closer together? A man once said, "If all the powers of the world would climb a moun­ tain together, all the problems of the world could be solved when they got there.”

But I still ask myself, "Why did I climb that mountain?”

MOODS IN ALLITERATION SUK Bl'An Y

’60

First Prize, Quiz and Quill Poetry Soft, soft sand sifts across the beach — One scraggly scrap of seaweed flutters by Several youngsters scramble after seashells And sun-scorched bathers romp in morning waves.

The afternoon grows sultry from the heat And palm trees dip and swing in hot west winds.

The scene is made more lovely yet by one Flamingo, perched, and leering at his prey.

Kveiiing shadows creep across the bay And lightning scars the Sarasota skies — I’urple, sunset gold, gulf blue, and grey Are deepened into black as night draws near.

With haste the pallid moon ascends the skies To reach its peak in peacefulness. It paves A pearl path across the lapping water And pauses on impassioned lovers who see it not.

THE GIFT OF SPRING • XllDRt Y Sl’RtNGKR

’61

Second Prize, Quiz and Quill Poetry O, Spring! the wondrous gift from God, So bright and gay with budding flowers.

New life breaks forth from rich black sod And grows inspired by plenteous showers.

O, Spritig! a sign of His great love Toward man atid each small beast and sprout, Awakes our minds to thoughts above And casts all thoughts of evil oitt.

But what if there should be no Spring?

Would life to us be full of flame.

As it becomes when robins .sing, Or would our heads just hang in shame?

Oh, would that Spring could last all year And keep our hearts so full of cheer.

Five

CRUSOE AT COLLEGE LOUIS WILLIAM NORRIS ’28

President, MacMurray College When Robinson Crusoe saw a strange footprint in the sanH, his surprise was tinged with significant deduaions. He knew that some­ one else had been there; that something else might happen; and that his life would undoubtedly be different thereafter. Friday seemed at first a threat, but became a friend, as Crusoe followed these de­ duaions.

Learning consists in looking for tracks in the sand and drawing deduaions from them. An apple falling to the earth, a bathtub running over when the bather sinks into it, a teakettle lifting its lid as the water boils, were tracks in the sand that surprised Newton, Archimedes, and Watts into deducing that something had been going on that would make their lives different.

Sometimes the tracks are imaginary, but they typify events that are real. Thomas Mann imaging a mberculosis sanitarium located on a mountain (The Magic Mountain) where people enjoyed their illnesses. Relatives came to visit patients but ramp to enjoy life there and remained. The faa that they contracted the disease also did not deter others from coming. This track in the sands of imagi­ nation leads to a devastating realization that men may come to enjoy the diseases of their civilization and leave them unremedied.

Again, the scholar may degenerate into a mere daydreamer, when he emphasizes merely "therefore, therefore, therefore—.” Deductions without a sufficient number of tracks, theories and conclusions without faas, make Jack a dull boy. Dreaming the happy hours away, when he should be examining the cold, hard facts of life with a microscope, gives grounds for the image of impraaicability fancied by some scholars.

These tracks are found not only in nature but in human nature.

Regular forgetting of names or of certain ones, may be a symptom of preoccupation with the world of one’s own self. An inordinate desire to help another with his faults, "for his own good,” may uncover a trail to smugness and superciliousness in the reformer. A bad tem|»r attributed to a domineering father, only points to an ego unwilling to bear its own faults.

Footprints in human relations may tell a whole story when studied.

Desdemona’s handkerchief told the story lago wanted told, but Othello found out too late there was a truer one. The tragedy of Othello is every man’s danger. The implications of the fact that this is "an apartment house society,” can be found only with the most careful study. Man passes regularly through the swinging doors of this society. He must find what stands behind these doors before it is too late. Doors of a school open to students of a white but not a dark skin, are footprints that tell a story to be studied.

In moments of meditation, there are footprints that cross a man’s path, which he feels sure were not made by other men. To perceive the intricate symmetry of a limitless space is to sense that something six

noble was done for man before he got here. To feel needed by a lonely, underprivileged, defeated neighbor is to recognize a track leading to a world where duties go along with privileges. In moments when realization of littleness, falsehood, revenge come to be known, these are steps leading to an upland one would do better to follow.

Maupassant made famous a peasant who picked up a piece of string on the road to Goderville. But he was suspected of picking up a purse another had stolen. Though he was freed from prosecution when it was discovered that his frugality alone was involved, and he had actually picked up a mere piece of string, he never succeeded in dispelling the public belief that he had picked up a purse. Others may misconstrue your treatment of footprints, or even pieces of string, which you may find. But you dare not let yourself cease to look for them.

SONNET FOR YOUTH GEORGE E. STUMP ’59

The fire and energy of Youth are great— A zeal to search ahead is very strong; So elders press control upon this state To guide the Youth from chance of doing wrong.

Sometimes Youth builds his life upon a dream: He places too much hope in things untried.

For this adults would offer concrete scheme— Rigidity for Youth should be applied.

The truth of fact lies here within this realm: That Youth in fear of future surely gropes.

Thus, older pilots should be at the helm To offer able guidance for his hopes.

Yet, overemphasis upon control Will leave Youth helpless in his future role.

GRANDMA'S HOUSE CARL VORPE ’51

Wlien a country house wears out, first the windows go And leave the inner dark a jagged frame.

But I remember Grandma used to walk the floor.

Stop at window toward the bam to watch where Grandpa came Swinging the empty pail from some late evening chore.

The window, seeing out, is more than looking in Except when it frames the love of what’s inside: (So Grandpa might have said.) But then again In those days it had no past to hide.

Now the house is dead. Sides are graying bone.

Woodchucks tunnel under sagging frames, .\nd beneath the bedroom floor their young are born.

Come wildly forth, playing woodchuck games.

The sun has lost its dance floor, west window pane Is gone so badly now the plaster takes the rain And crumbles at the touch in shivering air.

Who knows where love goes when windows are not there?

Seven

DAWN FIRE CARL VORl’K ’!)]

He walked the forest morning where Bird W'arning charmed the day to life And tame upon nnlcndcd ashes of a fire Left for dying.

Through the night the fire had kept itself, Rooted with aslics from the cold; Each log turned up a glowing half At his breathing.

He (Icared ashes, turned warm ends dose ,\nd brought new wood to hold them there; .Smoke resisted. Slowly rose With an old remendtering; (Toiich-spaik of longing When leaping flames Had framed their youngness!

Laugh-leaping sounds When with licr eyes She met his lostness.

In Hashing play of lire She made a fantasy Of his gift, Of his loving.)

The ,sky surveyed the crisp of day (He warmed the day before its time).

New limbs turned in, and took the flame away Erom old and dying.

He felt his love, a dawn fire 7'urning, returning Warm in the depth of his knowing.

THE MAID CARL VORIM. '.'ll

I wonder how she counts disordered lives: By dust-strokes in the hall where feet Come tracking through before her day arrives?

By sordid sheets mdtedded in the .sprawl Of leg and arm wound up for nightmare’s need?

By ashes dropped in laughter through the night When everyone else has gone to bed or seed?

By tlrawers hanging on to cornered wear Where one inch-pull drops into tangle war?

Oh degradation, this! To want collectors of the Alll To order, houseclean, .spring and fall— Oh luxury of this: never to cotint the care Of keeping lifelong straight while she is there.

AH'M JEST A-PASSIN' THROUGH JOHN PAYTON ’59

First Prize, Barnes Short Story Contest, 1958-59 “This world is not mail home, Ah’m jest a-passin’ through.

Mali treasures are laid out, Way up upon the blue.

The angels beckon me.

From Heaven's open door.

An’ Ah cain’t feel at home In this world any more.”

August was scorching hot in Georgia as the sun sent its rays down on the rolling fields outside of Atlanta. It had been a bad summer for Georgia, one of the hottest in the past twenty years. It was not enough that the sun was drying up water, scorching grass to a dead-brown color and making a fine red powder out of the red earth.

No, this was not enough. In addition to these natural oppressions there was the increasing threat and advance of the blue-coated Union Army. They were to the north and west of Atlanta. This threaten­ ing army of men was led by a lean, red-headed West-Pointer named William T. Sherman. He had issued orders to destroy everything the South had when his men marched through the plantation country.

This left ruin in the form of man-made fires in addition to the fire from the sky.

August 24th, 1864. A hot day that made people sweat until shirts, pants, and socks were soaking wet with perspiration. Dust would collect on these wet people, and they would become creased and wrinkled with sun and dirt.

It was a hot day, in a hot state, in a nation heated to the melting point with a civil war. War between states that had once lived together in mutual self-respect. Nobody seemed to know what started the war or what they were fighting about. In short, it had no purpose.

This brutally hot day finally began to cool about seven-thirty in the evening. The sun was on its way to a golden setting. The sky was already darkening in the east. Night would soon be here.

Nobody saw him approach on his scrawny little burrow with its long bending ears and its uneven hobble. He seemed to come out of the dirt on the horizon. He was much too large for the burrow. The poor animal seemed to just be able to support his weight, let alone walk anywhere with him. The man’s legs dangled down from the saddle until the black boots almost touched the ground. The boots must have been black at one time but now they were cracked and creased in the front where they bent. They were coated with a thin layer of dried red mud and dust. They looked like two stovepipes clamped on his legs just below his knees.

The color of his pants was hard to define. It wasn’t any definite color. It seemed to be a cross between a grey and a blue. Sometimes it looked like grey and other times it looked like blue. These dirty pants were held up with a sagging, loose pair of grass-stained susNine

penders. The right suspender kept sliding off his shoulder and he would patiently slide it back into position.

As he came closer to the Rebel camp, you could make out more of his features. His shirt was open all the way down the front except for one button in the middle. His shirtsleeves were rolled up past his elbows and the long, soiled sleeves of his once-white flannel underwear came out of his outer shirt and went down to his wrists.

The neck of his underwear showed above his shirt collar. It was stained with ever-widening lines and stains caused by a combination of dirt and sweat continuously running down his neck and being soaked up by the flannel.

He had long arms that swung loose from his sloping shoulders.

His hands were rough and tanned. Large veins rippled around the bones in his hands and wrists. His frame was lean and cramped in his chest but bulged out in a little pot-belly which caused the top button on his pants to come loose.

The guards had seized the reins on the burrow and were leading the animal, with his rider, towards the company commander’s tent.

He was very close now. He would keep blowing his nose with a crumpled, unwashed handkerchief that half-hung out of his right rear pocket. He raised himself in his saddle once and you could see a large leather patch sewed to the seat of his pants to save them from wearing out.

He had a dusty, grey hat with a brim that was wide and hung limp in front and on the left side, so that the left side of his face was shaded and the right side was exposed to the sun and weather. His neck, by his throat, was burned red and was criss-crossed with lines of dirt.

A heavy, matted beard grew out about three inches from his face, down from his temples and around his chin under to his Adam’s apple.

He chewed a large chew of tobacco constantly. It dribbled out the left side of his mouth and some had hardened on the hair of his beard, turning it brown and yellow and making it a sticky, dust-collecting little rivulet in his beard.

He had a large, hooked nose that rose out of a furrow between two bushy eyebrows and disappeared in a mass of moustache. Little brown bead eyes peeked out from wrinkled and sun-squinted skin.

The company commander emerged from his tent, buckling on his officer’s sword. He had once worn a handsome, hand-made Southern grey uniform. Now he had only the torn pants of his original uniform left. He wore a borrowed Union coat that had its rank stripped from it. His boots were unpolished, his hands dirty, his hair uncombed and unsheltered without a hat. He looked tired and haggard with many days of hard battle and little rest from his enemies, the North and the sun. He threw a weary salute to the guards and stumbled up to the stranger on mule-back. He shook his head for a minute, as if to clear a fatigue-clouded mind.

He stared at the man for a minute and then asked, '"What are you doing in my camp? Don’t you know you could have been shot?

For all we know, you’re a Yankee deserter or a spy. We shoot those Ten

kind of people in time of war. Don’t you know that, who-ever-youare? I think I’ll save us all a lot of trouble and have you shot now.

Guard!”

The stranger had been listening to all of the major’s comments with a little, unconcerned smile on his face. It didn’t seem to bother greatly. When the major asked the guard to come and take him away and shoot him, he started to talk.

"Hold on there, colonel! Don’t git yer guts in a uproar! Ah ain’t no spy or deserter. Ah’m jest passin’ through these parts and all you kin give me is a drink a water if you please.” He drawled his words out very carefully so that he was sure that everyone under­ stood them perfectly.

The major wasn’t quite sure just what to think, so he thought he would question the stranger some more. "So you just want a drink of water do you? I’m still not sure who you are. You could be one of those Yankee spies, but you look too sloppy and well-fed for one of those boys. I wonder who you could be.”

He spat a short stream of tobacco juice to the ground and said, "Colonel, you don’t know who Ah am, an’ Ah doubt if you evah fahnd out. Ah may jest be a spy. You don’t know but you gotta take a chance. Now, where’s that drinkin’ water?”

The major reluctantly pointed in the direction of a little stream that ran through, crawled through, the camp. He didn’t know what to think about this man. He thought he might learn something about him if he asked his name.

"What’s your name, stranger,” called the major as the man sauntered off towards the water.

"What’s Mah name? Oh, Ah don’t remember mah real name but you kin call me Selster.”

He began to sing as he went on down to the creek, "This world is not mah home, Ah’m jest a-passin’ through . . .” Gradually all you could hear was the tune, you couldn’t distinguish the words.

The major was worried about many things right now. His men were slowly starving and disease had riddled his ranks until he had about 85 left in his company that had started out with about 150 men. He and his men were the shock absorbers for the city of Atlanta. They were about fifteen miles from the city on the north­ west side.

There was a company of Union soldiers camped on the other side of a large rise of hills that seemed to separate these two fighting forces from each other. They just sat in their camps knowing that each other was on the other side of the hills. The time of battle was drawing near. The Southern commander wanted to cross the hills and push the Union commander’s troops back to the North. The Northern commander had orders to move into the city of Atlanta and get rid of all obstacles, especially Southern troops. Yes, there was going to be some fighting soon, and many were going to die, that is, if they didn’t die of starvation or disease before the battle.

The Southern major was thinking how long it had been since his men had had any meat to eat. They had been living on biscuits Eleven

and coffee for the last three months. Scurvy was running wild in his camp with about two out of every five men coming down with it.

Men were tired of war, tired of each other and tired of living.

"Mah treasures are laid out, way up upon the blue” . . . The refreshed man was coming back from the creek. He continued his song, "The angels beckon me from Heaven’s open door. . .”

Grab that man! shouted the major. 'Tm going to shoot him anyway!”

"Easy, major, easy. Ah ain't goin’ nowhere. It’s too hot an evenin’ to get yerself all heated up like that. Ah’ll tell you. Whahl Ah was down by the ctick there. Ah got to thinkin’ about this here war and Ah got to thinkin’ about how you an’ your boys must be havin’ a hard tahm of it. So Ah thought to mahself thet Ah should help you in some way. Now Ah been tidin’ around these parts an’ Ah been seein’ lots o’ Yanks runnin’ around an’ . . .”

"What do you do, mister?” asked the major. "What kind of job have you got that you can run over the countryside like nothing’s happening. Sure there’s Yanks running around. Too damned many of them to suit me! What do you think has been worrying me for the last few months? I tell you, those bluecoats have been driving me out of my mind! There are about twenty of them to every one of us. ’They just don’t stop coming!”

"Ah know, major. Ah know. You don’t have to tell me. Ah see ’em every day. ’Cause Ah see ’em every day. Ah think that Ah could be some help to you, major. Ah could be one o’ your scouts.

Ah could scout that bunch o’ Yanks that’s on the other sahde of that ridge o’ hills yonder,” he swept his arm in the direction of the hills.

"You could probably use a good scout, couldn’t you major?”

'Yeah, sure, I could use a good scout, but I’m not so sure about you.

How do I know that you’re not a spy for the Union?”

"You don’t know. You have to take a chance, major. Everybody has to take chances, major. Ah’d be a real good scout.” A dark stream of tobacco juice made a little puff and splat as it hit the dust.

"You look like you’ve been tramping around for awhile. I might as well take a chance on you. But mind you, if you step out of line just once. I’ll personally shoot you in the head." "The major turned to go back into his tent but stopped and ordered, "Sergeant! Get this man some food and a place to sleep. He’s going to be our scout for a while. If he acts funny or does anything suspicious, report him to me and I’ll have him shot!” He wheeled around and disappeared inside his tent flap.

The sergeant stared at Selster for a minutes and then said despisingly, "Boy, they don’t care what they let in the Army anymore, do they?” He wanted to try this new man and see what he was made of.

Selster just looked at him and slowly shifted his chew of tobacco in his mouth and chewed for a little while. He took one slow step forward and answered the sergeant, "Son, when you wake up tomorrow mornin’ go down to that crick down there and take a good look at yourself in the water.” With this statement he took his right hand and stretched his suspender back to his right shoulder. He walked Tivelve

away from the sergeant and then turned and said, "Come on. Show me where Ah’m goin’ to bed down for tonight.”

The sergeant followed like an obedient puppy-dog and soon led the way.

"Mah treasures are laid out way up upon the blue. . .” Selster seemed to be serenading the sergeant.

The sergeant led him into a little clearing in some heavy bushes.

He explained that they had their camp spread out so that anyone observing them with glasses would think they had more men than they did. Two stacks of four rifles each were in the middle of two large, short logs that were lying side by side about six feet from a fire. The fire fairly large, three and a half feet high, was in the middle of the clearing. Three dingy-looking socks, with holes in them, were lying across a home-made clothesline made out of three sticks. The complete unit looked like a high-jump stand. A broom made out of a long, stout stick with a few kinks in it and some small brush strapped on the stick with bandage material, leaned up against the clothesline. The tents consisted of carelessly thrown canvas over another high-jump stand. Two men were cleaning the barrels and stocks of their rifles with the bottoms of their shirts.

Another man cocked the hammer on his gun and released it, cocked it and released it. Six of the men were smoking pipes, the tobacco supplied by one man. They all had their little campaign hats perched on their heads with the brims turned up. A corporal held a Bible in his one hand and a pipe in his other. Five were clean-shaven, two had beards, and the other just had a moustache.

The sergeant spoke to the group, "You men listen. This here is Selster. He’s going to scout for us. You boys fix him up with some chow and a pad, will you?”

The men looked up at Selster for a moment and then went back to what they were doing as if he had never come into this friendly little circle.

Nobody spoke to him so he went over and sat by a log next to a younger soldier. The youngster sat with a knife in his hand poised to start carving a piece of wood. He wasn’t carving though. He just sat and stared into the fire, never touching the wood.

Selster sat down beside him and then began to speak, "How’re you doin’ son? Tahred? Ah’ll bet you are. Ah would be too if Ah had to fight on what you been carin’.”

The word "earin’ ” just stirred the young soldier out of his trance.

"What did you say?”

"Ah said you must be tahred fahghtin’ on what you get to eat.”

"Oh! Yeah, things is pretty bad here, have been for a long time.

We ain’t had nothin’ but hardtack and coffee for the past three months. I’m gettin’ sick of all this business anyway. All we do is stay out here in this heat and get killed off and nobody in the dear old Southland gives a damn.

Selster &oke into his talk, "Got anythin’ to eat. Ah ain’t had nothin’ all day.”

"Yeah, sure. Here’s some hardtack and a pot to boil your coffee Thirteen

in. Help yourself. Yeah, help yourself to what? We used to get rations of coffee and quarter rations of hardtack and bacon and what we call small rations, like Yankee beans, rice, and split peas. Now they’re played out. The hardtack is so precious now that the sarge no longer knocks a box open and lets every man help himself. No sir! Them days is gone. Now he stands over the box and counts the number of tacks he gives to every man. And that isn’t all. The boys will stand around until the box is emptied, and then they will pick up the fragments that have fallen to the ground and scrape the dust off them pieces with their knives and eat them and be glad to get them. Can you figger human beings getting nutty over a square of about two inches with sixteen irregular perforations in it? It looks like animal food. It comes in fifty-pound boxes and looks like light brown rocks and tastes even worse.”

One of the other soldiers chimed in on the conversation, "The sarge was sayin’ the other mornin’, 'Boys, I was eatin’ a piece of hard tack this mornin’ and I bit on somethin’ soft. What do you think it was?’ Well, I says, 'Was it a worm?’ An he says, 'No sir! It was a ten-penny nail.’ I liked to died laughin’ then but I got to thinkin’ about what he said. It’s about right. Them biscuits is like granite.”

"Yeah,” said the youngster, "There’s lots of things around here I don’t like.” He stared into the fire again and began talking as if no one were listening.

"Soldiering does well for a few months, but it don’t work like farming; I ain’t homesick, I don’t know what homesick is, but I know the difference between home and soldiering. I want to get out of this thing some way if I can, but I don’t know how I will do it, hardly.

There’s no chance for deserting. . .”

Another soldier took up the theme: "I know what you mean. I’m sick and tired of the whole mess myself. I’ve layed down in the rain and slept all night and got up in the morning dripping wet and hungry. I’ve slept on the soft side of a board, in the mud and every other place that was lousy and dirty. I’ve drank out of goose ponds, horse tracks, etc., for the last eighteen months. All for the poor Negro. I have yet to see the first one that I think has benefitted by it.”

An older soldier with wild, stringy grey hair looked up from a coffee cup. "I remember when the South was a country of big plan­ tations. I owned one myself.”

One soldier piped in, "Don’t listen to him, he’s cra2y, battle fatigue and no food. He’s like what the rest of us is goin’ to be in another week.”

The old one continued, "I remember what my place looked like.

White and lavender Spanish moss was hangin’ from the oak trees.

Trees shaded the grass and water that was immediately under them. A small pond wound in and out of swamp grass and lily pads. The water was brown in color because of a recent rain. There were patches of yellow and brown where the sun had scorched the grass.

The lawn sloped up to the house. A ring of iris plants surrounded Fourteen

a small magnolia tree that cast a short shadow towards the plantation house. A curved driveway circled up to the wide front steps and then curved away and back to the road. Eight tall, white pillars were across the front of the house separated by a green railing than ran the perimeter of the porch. Green shutters outlined each of the win­ dows in the upstairs and downstairs. All of the colors seemed to be intensified by bright sunlight. Yes sir! That was the South. What is it now? I don’t know. All I know is that the Yankees is cornin’ and that the time is near for us to die.” He sobbed into his dirty shirt sleeve and just rocked back and forth.

Selster felt a sharp twist in his stomach when he saw the old man.

Why did old men have to fight in this war anyway, he thought. It really seems useless.

He picked up the pot of coffee he had been brewing and started to pour a cup. He almost tipped the pot when he saw hundreds of little maggots swimming around the surface of the coffee. He threw the mess in the fire and turned to the boy. The boy had gotten up and left, but there was a piece of paper lying on the ground where the boy’s feet had been. Selster picked it up and saw that it was a letter. He blew and wiped the dust off of it and tried to make out some scribbling. He saw that it was a letter home that someone in the Rebel army had written, but never gotten mailed. It was evidently written after some battle. He read it to himself.

Dear Folks, I came out almost safe. I was slitely woonded in the rist. Two of my buddies got it when we run up a hill after sum yanks that wuz suppost to be runnin but they wuzent runnin they wuz watin at the top of the hill fer us and they shot George thru the haid and he jwt stopped and dropped an Davey got his legs shot out frum under him by those dirty yanks. I was scert so I run bak down the hill and thats when one of them yanks hit me in the rist with a bullit. It really hirt me when that bullit hit, then it begun to hirt and birn up my arm an in my shoulder an then in the back of my haid, . . .

Selster put the letter down. That was all there was. The writer wanted to write more but the interruptions of war made him leave it lying on the ground. This was about all Selster could take. He got up and pulled the suspender strap back on his right shoulder and went back towards the major s tent, singin in a low tone. An Ah cain t feel at home in this world anymore.”

He didn’t bother to announce himself to the major. He just walked in. He placed a stream of tobacco juice on the floor of his tent and said to the major, "Colonel, Ah’m goin’ out to do some scoutin’ now. Ah may not be back ’til sunup. Jest don’t shoot me when Ah show again, okay.”

The major had been studying a map that was spread out on a table in front of him. "Yes,” his voice said wearily, "go ahead, but tell somebody else where your going, so they won’t shoot you.”

Selster left the tent in a hurry and went to find the sergeant.

Fifteen

He found him down where the Southerners had their horses tied up. He saw his little burrow peacefully munching on dried grass.

"Sergeant, Ah want my burrow ready in about fahve minutes Ahm goin’ out scoutin’ tonight. Ah’m jest goin’ over and get some of mah gear.” “ He wasn't ping to get any gear. He just went back to the clearing where he had seen what the Southern army really looked like He fpnd the young man he had been talking to. He said reassuringly Don t worry boy, it won’t last much longer,” Then he walked away from the boy who was once again staring at nothing in the fire.

When Selster’s burrow got him into his own Union camp it was dark. He handed the reins to a guard and walked over to the cap­ tains tent. He walked in and stood at attention in front of the captain’s field desk.

"Got anything to report, Sels? You must have seen something over in that Rebel camp. You’ve been gone all afternoon. You’re a good scout. What did you see?” Tlie captain’s merry blue eves danced in the light of the kerosine lantern. ^ "Yes sir. I’ve seen a lot today. I’m afraid that they’ve got lots a men. You can go see for yourself by the number of fahres they got and how far apart they are. There must be about 400 men at least over there. Ah talked with their commanding officer. He’s pretty confident that he’ll crunch you if you try to come over the hills^ You’d better turn back and try an git at Atlanta by a different way.’’

But Sels, I’ve got 250 good men that have just been sent down from the North. They was coming to help out. Fresh men, Sels!

I could take that Rebel company easy if I wanted to.”

"No you couldn’t, captain. I was over there an’ seen what his men looked like. They was tahred alrahght, but they looked mean and hungry. Them’s the bad kahnd, captain, you know that.”

"Yes, I guess you’re right, Sels. You always are. I’ll have the men pull out first thing in the morning before sunup. We’ll go to the east from here and then maybe you can find us a way through.”

"Sounds good to me, captain. Sounds real good. Ah’m goin’ back out now, an’ keep an eye on ’em until we git out a here. Ah’ll ketch up with you tomorrow sometahme. Good luck!”

"Sels. Take it easy, will you. You’re a good man, and I’d hate to lose you. Nobody can get away with what you can but you and that Southern accent. Take it real easy, I want to see you tomorrow afternoon.”

Sels smiled at the captain and walked out of the tent. He thought to himself that he had better pt back to the Southern camp before they began to wonder about him. He got on the little burrow and the two of them started slowly back for the enemy camp. He began to sing to himself, "This world is not mah home, Ah’m jest a-passin’ through. . .”

Selster got back to the Southern camp about eleven o’clock that night. He rode right in past any guard that there might have been.

The stifling heat of the day was relieved somewhat now and everySixteen

body was sleeping, including the guards. They were dead on their feet. Literally dead!

Selster rode up to the major’s tent and dismounted. He left the burrow standing outside as he went into the tent. He accidentally kicked the legs of the major’s planning table and it sent his officer’s sword clattering to the ground.

The major woke with a start and demanded, '"Who’s there? Speak or I’ll shoot!”

"Don’t shoot, colonel! It’s me, Selster. Don’t shoot for Heaven’s sake or you’ll wake the whole camp!”

"What did you find on your scouting trip, Selster? How did the Yanks look?”

"Well, Ah’ll tell you, colonel. You’d better pull out o’ here first thing in the mornin’, ’cause if you don’t and them Yanks decide to charge you whahle you’re camped here, he’ll clean you our. Face it, colonel, you ain’t got nothin’ left but a bunch of old men and boys who are too sick and tahred to fahght anymore.”

"I still think I could give the Yanks a good battle with the troops I have, but if you think I should pull out maybe I should. We could help hold Atlanta better if we had somebody with us to help us.

Okay, I’ll pull them out in the morning. What are you going to do now, Selster? You want to come with us? You’re welcome. You proved yourself a good Southerner. I’m sure the men would want you to come along when they hear what you done for them. What do you say?”

"Ah don’t know, colonel. Ah sure would lahke to go with you but Ah think Ah’ll jest move on. Ah don’t much care for this war anyway. It’s useless. Too many people are dahln’ because of some­ thin’ that nobody knows about. Do you know what the war’s about, colonel?”

The major didn’t answer.

"Ah’ll tell you. The answer is No, you don’t know. Ah don’t know. Nobody knows. When you don’t know what’s happenin’, then’s the tahm to quit. Ah’ll be seein’ you sometahm, colonel.”

Selster sent outside the tent and mounted his burro. He put a fresh chew of tobacco in his mouth and started to roll it slowly from cheek to cheek. He took his right hand and put his right suspender strap back on his shoulder. He nudged the burro with his dusty, black boots. As the animal started its slow, deliberate hobble, Selster started to sing, very softly so as not to wake the camp.

“This world is not niah home, .\h’m jest a-passin through.

Mah treasures are laid out, Way up upon the blue.

The angels beckon me.

From Heaven’s open door.

An’ Ah cain’t feel at home, In this world any more."

Seventeen

SPRING LOVE SARAH ROSE ’66

Out of stardust I made my love, Out of my dreams and a breath of Spring: With a smile on my lips I made my love And I gave my love a song to sing.

I tended my love with a watchful eye, Over it watched, and guarded the flame That lived on dreams and burning sighs — But my love was faceless and had no name.

A gust of wind blew away my love.

Blew it away and left me alone; And I knew I’d had but the shadow of love.

The shadow of love was all I’d known.

“At least I know what love is not,” I said as I looked up to the sky And saw that clouds were only clouds And the stars were there to see them by.

I’ll not be fooled a second time To cloud my eyes in a veil of Spring, And conjure love from a lyric rhyme— No! I’ll wait and see what summer bringsl

WIND-SWEPT SARAH ROSE ’56

I like a wind that’s strong and free.

That strips away what is not me And leaves me bare as leafless tree.

I like to feel the cobwebs blown— Uprooted from their cranial home So what is left is mine alone.

Too often have I sat while dust Of disuse and insidious rust Have sealed me with a subtle crust.

For who would think that woman’s work Which she is never let to shirk Would lie in wait with knowing smirk To bind the gropings of the mind With gropings of another kind?

I need a wind that’s strong and free.

That strips away what is not me And leaves me as I ought to be.

THE SEA ZULMA NELLY MARTINEZ

Special Student, Cordobe, Argentina I. 1 FELT THE SEA I went to the sea.

I went barefooted to the sea.

1 stood amazed And Time became limitless there.

1 felt the soft sand under my feet And I was blissful.

I heard the song of the sea.

Song of life and song of death.

O, to die in the seal The idea of death terrihes me But not in the sea.

I talked to the sea.

I heard its voices, Now roaring, now murmuring Sweet tales Fairy stories Of mischievous elves.

I lay down And felt the waves splashing fiercely on my body.

I loved them The waves loved me And 1 tried to embrace them Vainly.

I wish I could have gone to sleep.

To sleep in such an amorous companyl And perhaps to dream To dream of being carried away By a billow Far away ....

II. / WORSHIPPED THE SEA I knelt down In solemn reverence And paid my humble tribute to the sea.

I felt some drops on my face The wind in my hair The sand on my body And I forgot that 1 was I. The eternal sea The immeasurable Rolled on and on Alluring.

I tried to escape its charm But was spell-bound.

I could not move.

The sea called me earnestly And I cried silently ,\nd my soul reached the perfect bliss Because I thought I had seen God’s face on the water.

Nineteen

DARTS OF DOUBT bI';vi;ri.v

kasi'I'.kdav

'60

Of all the things I wonder, I wonder most about The little things that bother me, The little darts of doubt.

Such great and mighty weapons, Though they may seem petite.

They pierce my puffed balloonlike hopes And drop them at my feet.

Again my hopes rise upward.

Patched by faith sincere.

They reach an even greater plane For now there’s nought to fear.

CARNIVAL MACABRE ,|l'.A\ IINCCR CIlASr ’41!

The rain came slowly to the area—a light pattering that was undecided whether to stay or let the August sun burn it out. No one paid any attention.

The women continued to walk, wandering aimlessly or stepping purposefully, clutching their candy boxes and cheap crucifixes. The mechanical beat of the merry-go-round met and overpowered the upsurge whine of the ferris wheel, the dry whirr of the dodgem. In its white glare some women mounted the galloping chargers. Up and down, and around, and up and down and around with eyes staring, staring.

The rain quickened. Carved faces let down awnings and sidings, shut themselves in among the baseballs and air rifles, the gaudy dolls and painted pillows. Then summer-shower drops burst in a mad frenzy of cold wet and there was running and scrambling for places beneath the tiny shelters of the ride canopies. In the Penny Arcade laughter was shrill. Hot, ugly bodies crowded to turn handles, press buttons, pull knobs, grab for candy boxes and cheap crucifixes.

The rain struck harder—bounced from the walks and roared into formless puddles. Women, faces caked red and white, splashed unheeding—three, two, a quartette. The machine life weakened until only the merry-go-round and the dodgem lived. The cars jerked, whirled and slowed, steered by the clown faces, grinning, grinning.

Suddenly the roller coaster set its train in motion. Two sodden women led the empty cars along the narrow, storm-beaten track.

Sitting far forward as the machine gained speed, careened around curves and poised at the top of the steepest grade, they held laughing death-heads to the wind, screaming, screaming.

Near-darkness from the driving rain. The painted horses circled and the red cars bumped and the roller coaster roared with the women who saw everything and nothing and smiled at the secrets there.

Twenty

SONG OF THE SPIRIT DUAN ROTH ’59

Abstract paintings mean various things to different persons, as they attempt to fuse the artist’s original concepts of the subject into a real, rational plan whereby they may understand the thought behind the work. An exhibit of high school art was being shown in Chicago last summer. One of the few paintings I can recall was labeled "Humanity.” It was a maze of footsteps, lines leading to nowhere it seemed, pyramids and skyscrapers, a globe of the world in distortion, the symbols of atoms and molecules which are so much a part of our modern world. The footsteps began in the lower left hand of the painting, surrounded by dark, seething clouds and led up to the upper right portion of the work, which resolved in the gold and red flames of the sky.

As I studied the picture, its component parts, and complete effect, I felt that, somehow, I had been closer to the aaual "spirit” or essence of humanity. It seemed that the very voice of spirimal guidance had spoken to me: Generations have passed and centuries have faded into the haze of history . . . hours of despair and distress, days of doubt and uncertainty —yet through these troubled times mankind has looked to me for a renewed hope, an increased faith—for a sympathetic assurance that the future will hold greater things than the present. . .

Now, before me, turns the world—with its many nations again under a shadow of doubt and indecision ... its people are afraid of the future, the ever present tomorrow. . .

It is being said that mankind’s days are numbered, that time will extinguish itself into oblivion—that present trials, discouragements, failures, and doubts are but warnings of things which are yet to come.

Can this be the same world which was created for their freedom and happiness? . . .

But wait! Within the hearts of tens and hundreds and thousands of people in my fear-oppressed nations, I can detect a glowing ember of love, of hope, and a faith in the fumre—a spark which releases itself from these inspired individuals to fall onto the lasting pages of eternity through the leadership of great presidents, mighty kings, strong monarchies and powerful republics . . . and on with the common man—the shopkeepers, farmers, teachers, factory workers, miners, and fishermen—and on with their descendants . . . this infinitesimal particle of inspiration which will someday burst into a mighty flame . . . great spirits combining their common origins into a lighthouse for all the affliaed, the troubled—an inspiration to those who are discouraged, a guiding light to those who falter, an explanation to those who are confused. . .

With each swiftly passing moment, these same nations are learning to believe that, surely, they were created to be happy, to fully enjoy the blessings of life, to be useful to their fellow-nations, and an honor to themselves . . . that the trials which confront them today are but tests by which their spirits are strengthened, made greater, and more worthy to enjoy the higher objectives of life which the future holds Twenty-one

. . . that their discouragements should be trampled underfoot and used as stepping-stones to success, to conquer their obstacles and trans­ form them into opportunities . . . that today’s failures will guide them on to future victories . . .that their tomorrows will bring them new spiritual strength, realized hopes, advanced opportunities, and great beginnings. . .

My humanity is on the verge of something noble, on the border of a new glory that will shine forever in the lives of everyone, every­ where. . .

It was here that I first began to realize that the effeas of this eternal spirit’s blazing torch are far-reaching to our physical bodies, innumer­ able to our mortal minds, and everlasting to our souls—if we accept and follow its light. . .

SEEN FROM INSPIRATION POINT LINDA M. TISCHLER '62

Third Prize, Freshman Poetry Contest A humble, hand-hewn cross Against a patterned quilt Of verdant green and amber squares; Queen Anne’s lace forming its own unique design— White dotted swiss against the bending field grasses: Tall pines growing ever upward to meet the azure sky; A sky in which fluffy white clouds Have been .set a-dancing with caprice; Land curving gracefully into the horizon, Rising, sloping hills graced by regal greenery; Dancing butterflies as warm and sweet as honeysuckle; The infinitely gentle sun That reigns over the time lapse we call day; -A small, self-sufficient chipmunk, Scampering, darting, hurrying—

WHO OF US WOULD STAND ERECT Lew Shaffer '59

Third Prize, Quiz and Quill Poetry Who of us would stand erect , Abjuring life and all its right.

Not strength, but weakness to elect.

As light of day to dark of night?

Begird and not belittle truth.

Distinguish it from belemnite.

Cockatrice, never eye our youth; Despumate all wrong with might.

Exuviate that shell of pride, For who of us could there decide.

From youth’s own door of tearless pain.

What God, if God there is, must reign.

Twenty-two

THE DOGWOOD BLANCHE WINIFRED CEHRES ’60

Third Prize (tie), Roy A. Burkhart Poetry Contest I am His Cradle.

On that soft, still Night so long ago I rocked Him Gently I'enderly to sleep.

When shepherds from nearby fields.

And wisemen, from Orient lands afar.

Came, bearing gifts.

To worship our dear Child, He cried not.

But smiled.

As if He knew That they were a part Of God’s great Plan.

I am His Cross, now.

Struggling, He carried me up the hill To Golgotha.

It is my crossbar on which The strong But gentle Hands and feet are now being nailed.

I shudder With each dull thud of the hammer.

His blood stains my wood.

I know His pain is great.

But His only words are; Father, forgive them, For they know not what they do.

And I remember that Night, That soft, still Night, When I rocked Him to sleep.

From the wood of the Cradle To the wood of the Cross.

I was His Cradle . . .

I am His Cross . . .

Twen ty-three

THE LETTER I’lIlI.lP O. Dl.I'VKR '34

Samuel Jennings went methodically through the contents of the business jacket pockets. His hand was steady and his eye alert, but his mood was pensive. Fifteen years experience with the Civil Aeronautics Board had honed the edge of a naturally sensitive though unphilosophical disposition. He never explored the scene of a crash without some long, if inexplicit thoughts upon the mysteries of life and death. He never examined the mangled corpse of a victim with­ out a kind of compassionate consternation.

Once when Sam was a lad, Mr. Powell, the small town funeral director who was a friend of the family, had allowed him to look at a body stretched out on the embalming table. "In my work,” he had said—and somehow Sam had never forgotten it—"in my work one must always maintain respect for the dead human body.”

Now Jennings extracted the last of the contents from the jacket pockets with a conscious recollection of Mr. Powell and his words.

This jacket belonged to the corpse of a victim of a prop-jet liner crash at La Guardia Field.

Among the contents there were the usual items typical of a young industrialist coming into New York: a list of business acquaintances, a driver s license, a hotel address and the date of a reservation, the picture of a lovely wife and their two daughters and one son, all children apparently under ten, a social security card, a home address and telephone number. Jennings heaved a sigh of relief that it was not his duty to notify next of kin. He was simply one of a large team assigned to discover, if possible, the cause of the crash.

Besides these usual items, however, an airmail self-addressed stamped envelope lay among the contents which the investigator had spread out before him for closer scrutiny. The envelope bore upon its face the return of the aggressive airline company whose daily flight num­ ber 165 had just crashed one thousand feet short of its destination.

Jennings recognized it at once as the kind of envelope several com­ panies were including along with their "welcome aboard” literature designed to create understanding and good will on the part of the passengers and to elicit constructive criticism and comment from them about the flight. Such a letter might provide some clue to the acci­ dent. He opened the envelope and began to read.

Written in a firm executive hand which revealed only slightly the vibration of the plane as it had glided through the clear atmosphere above the clouds were words obviously penned during the fatal journey and near its end.

This is my first flight,” the letter began, "For until a recent promotion I had little occasion for business travel. While the exper­ ience is still fresh in my mind I’d like to thank the people who have so safely sped me on my way. The clerk who handled my reservation by phone succeeded completely in making me feel important and wanted.

The busy ground crews readying things for our flight were a symbol of efficiency and skill. I never met the captain, but I watched him Tiventy-four

board the plane with an air of competence and confidence which was completely contagious as far as I was concerned.

"But most of all, I think, your stewardesses succeeded in represent­ ing personally to me the real but intangible essence of courtesy and concern. Perhaps they spotted me as a novice in the air. For though most of the passengers read or talked, I watched with fascination the constantly changing panorama beneath our wings. In any case, one of them took the empty aisle seat beside me for a while and chatted in a friendly interested way. All this seems like the small town atmosphere of human understanding and good will to which I am accustomed at home. I like it very much. So thank you for a very pleasant trip. I expect to fly again.”

Samuel Jennings slowly replaced the letter in its envelope and pre­ pared to make his report. He did not regard himself as a philosophical man. Yet now he found himself thinking how thin is the thread suspending our life above the mystery of eternity.

FROM LAST SUMMER ROI.r KOKSBORN ’56

I. PALM TREE WITHOUT ARMS Wind song moon song picked from the tree in silvered notes; as though wrougitt by fingers lighter, as tliough from a music softer than wind-song. moon glazed Shag topped pom pom shaken by a feeble reveler caught in automatic celebration.

II. PALM TREE WITH ARMS Green and brown The tall savage with the bushy head Betrays his birth and balances The half-bitten macaroon moon On the tip of his nose.

The ectoplasmic lady, reclining upon Strato-cumulus vehicular.

Gliding grey and old Upon pneumatic, tubeless tires Is heedless of the hedony around her.

How then, shall I testify I'or this woman whose face Is as untroubled As a field of dead corn While the silver-fronded, spangled and earringed Wild savage dances for the reeling stars.

Twenty-five

SOFT SUMMER NIGHT LINDA M. TISCHLER ’62

Second Prize, Roy A. Burkhart Poetry Contest The night is soft and warm and still.

The only sounds I hear are the persistent droning of the crickets and the gentle beating of my heart.

There is an aura of contentment wrapped around me like a lacy stole.

A fragrance of summer roses hangs sweetly suspended on the air. .4t the window rudied organdy curtains sway in the moonlight as the whispering breeze glides past.

And I feel soft and warm and still.

WHEN HE CALLS JAMES NUHFER ’59

Third Prize (tie), Roy A. Burkhart Poetry Contest How many days are there to live, how many nights to sleep — how many are the memories that I may always keep?

What notice will I get from God when He decides to call — What warning of that final breath, if any sign at all?

The more I think about it now the more it seems to me — that life is just a stepping stone to God’s eternity.

Twenty-six

SPECIFIC GRAVITY AMIiLIA

CAULKER T)9

^hird Prize {tie), Quiz and Quill Prose Peasants in Sierra Leone, West Africa, have for many generation’s cracked palm-nuts in the traditional method using a small rounded stone as a cracker, and a large, flat one as a base. This process involves cracking one nut at a time, and so a whole family may spend a number of days on a ton of palm kernels. The process is gradually being re­ placed now by the use of the nut-cracking machine of the western world.

Once the nuts have been cracked, the kernels have to be separated from the shells. Like nut-cracking, this process requires that people sit at work for many days. They pick the kernels one by one. It can be a great social time. Cracked nuts are measured out in equal lots for adults and in proportionately smaller lots for children. The work is done on the floor of the work-room, or out under a shady tree. It may be done on a competitive basis, purely for the fun of it, or to stimulate effort. It is a great social time when there is a lot of folk-singing and joke-telling For many people, however, and not so long ago, it took a heavy down-pour of rain and the crumbling of a wall to revolutionize the system of separating kernels from shells.

In the little village of MoBonnah, Lebbie’s family had left some cracked palm-nuts in a large caldron, in a dilapidated and abandoned mud-hut. The heavy rain and a strong wind tore down a portion of the old house. Some of the earth fell into the caldron which became filled with water. By dawn, the earth had been thoroughly dissolved.

Lebbie’s wife, Mattu, awoke and felt terribly perturbed at the thought of her cracked nuts being wet. She saw from the window, that the wall had fallen.

"Oh dear! this is what I get for all my labor. How will I get those palm-nuts washed from the mud and dried in time to be picked?”

Lebbie heard her complain, as if in a dream. He stretched himself and rubbed his eyes, then he reflected. No, he wasn’t dreaming, he realized. He and Mattu had awakened last night while it rained, and had both expressed regret that they had not removed the palmnuts. He jumped out of bed, and hurriedly, literally threw his gown over his head.

"Hello,” he said, rather grumpily. "Don’t look so woe-begone. We have learned that we should be more careful next time. Let’s go and see what we can do about it.”

He groped his way into the sleeves of his gown and led the way out.

Mattu followed in silence, holding her hands behind her.

Together they noticed that on the surface of the muddy, yellow water in the caldron floated a lot of little black things. Lebbie ran ahead and dipped both hands in, then raised them, full of sorted out and separated kernels, free from all shells.

"The kernels!” he shouted, holding out his hands to Mattu, his eyes gleaming with delighted surprise.

Tvjentv-seven

Mattu took longer strides and was soon beside him, looking in amazement at what to them both was nothing short of a miracle.

They found that just below the layer of kernels was another one of the few nuts that had been mistakenly cracked only partially, and that at the very bottom were all the shells.

With great joy, they washed their kernels, dried them out in the sun, and sold them at the market, all in one day.

The principle involved in the 'miracle,’ though not understood, revolutionized palm-kernel-picking, not only in Mo Bonnah, but all along the countryside.

CAPE CANAVERAL THOMAS BUCKINGHAM ’59

There I was, approaching Cape Canaveral, My auto streaking along under a clear blue sky.

I glanced to the right, and out of the corner of my eye I caught the glint of a noon-day sun olT polished steel.

Slowing my car, I took another look To make certain what it was. ,\11 I could sec (for the rest was hidden by trees) Was the glistening point of a cone, A cone of polished steel.

You should have seen my expression!

I sped up my car and made a right turn.

Still I could see nothing.

On I went and as I went.

Slowly the rest of the cone came into view, A cylindrical body, and the steel framework that propped it in place.

It looked as though it were ready for space.

But you should have seen the look on my face!

When it had all come into view.

It wasn’t a rocket ready to race.

But a brand new water tow'er— You should have seen my face!

ON THE WORK OF MEN DALLAS TAVLOR ’61

Men, cities of men.

Men build cities.

Tbe earthquakes come and swallow them.

Men build kingdoms.

The wars come and tliey are no more.

Men build ships.

The angry seas drown them.

This is the fate of man’s work: Man builds and it is gone.

For his work is as the chaff that is blown away.

God builds and it is eternal.

When man’s work has long since vanished, God’s work will still be whole.

For His work is from everlasting to everlasting.

Twenty-eight

A SIERRA LEONE AUGUST AMELIA CAULKER '59

Matiibo Shenge, Sierra Leone 1 hear the clatter, clatter.

Of the rain, on the window-pane.

Goodness! it has been going All day long.

August is known I'or its persistent rain.

Day and night, If only but a little at a time; One sure would wish there’d be a break Here and there.

1 he rains begin in May, And increase in June, But far between.

July appears, aud disappears.

With very heavy downpours Of infinite duration.

Boisterous though September is.

It lets the sunshine in, and is soon gone; The torrential night rains of October Alternate with bright sunny days.

But August rain, though lacking force.

Just drizzles days on end.

'TWAS ON THE ISLE OF CAPRI LIVV SHAFFER ’59

The Mediterranean sun filled the afternoon in the hectic month of August when all the 800,000 American tourists in Europe seemed to be located in Italy and at least half that number on the small isle of Capri, which is surrounded by the bluest water in the world.

The boat ride past Sorrento to Capri from Naples was inspiring; the drive from the harbor to the La Palma hotel was hectic; the dinner under palm trees was wonderful. The first sight to visit was the famous Blue Grotto, which is a cave under the rocks of the far end of the island where the water can best be described as blue mercury.

My first job was to locate a taxi. I finally spotted one that was already half full bur the driver insisted that he could make room for the three of us. After convincing the two teen-agers that they should occupy the back seat, the driver introduced himself as "Jerry”. He said that he would talk "good deal for tour of island and visit to Blue Grotto”. I tried to pin him down to a price, which is the first step every American must take when visiting Italy, but he would not talk money until the two boys were let out at the famous beach of Capri.

As Jerry drove recklessly back up the mountainous slope he pointed toward a large villa which overlooked the southern coast of the island and then said that one of those fellows had been the grandson of Mussolini.

Twenty-nine

Jerry convinced me that the best manner in which my elderly aunt could visit the Grotto was by his driving us directly to the cliff which stood direaly above the cave entrance. As we drove toward the far end of the island we soon found that our Jerry was indeed the king of the island for everyone knew his honk and stopped to yell at him as we flashed past.

After numerous near misses we traveled out into the grape-growing section of island where the wind was hotter and the air very dry.

As we neared the coast of this deserted seaion, a part I felt few Americans had ever seen, Jerry began to slow down and then finally stopped. There was no one in sight and my mind began to conjure up all sorts of wild ideas. Just then I saw a decrepit figure rise out of the brush along the side of the road and drag himself toward the car. In his hand was a large jug of water. The unshaven face was dominated by a pair of lonesome eyes. The frame of the man was drastically deformed by the fact that it had lost the complete left leg. The brown arm handed Jerry the jug from which he drank with long loud gulps. Jerry handed the man 150 lire and then drove off toward the Grotto.

We had all sat in silence but I finally was able to ask Jerry just what this had all meant. Jerry simply said this: "This man lost his leg in the war ... at first, his life was useless and lonely but now he sells water and life is good.”

We saw the Grotto that afternoon and indeed it was unforgettable.

As we drove back toward the city I again saw the lone figure by the road, but in his eyes seemed to glow a certain light that would be remembered long after the Blue Grotto had been forgotten.

THE MAMBO RIVER AMELIA CAULKER ’59

Mambo Shenge, Sierra Leone With niiul-banks mimicking its form, With tidal movement twice a day.

The Mambo River glides along— So silently.

A branch from off the Yawri Bay, With mangrove trees to decorate.

It curves and winds on to my home.

In Africa.

It’s full of fish and many crabs; Of lobsters, oysters, large, and small; But unassuming, calm and poised— Like a lady.

Much loved, much travelled, each curve known; Though but a river, yet a friend; Majestic figure of my dreams.

Dependable.

Thirty

DEPARTURE JOHN SOLIDAV ’G2

Third Prize, Preshman Prose Contest Slowly I moved up the stone steps to the house. My head was whirling uncertainly, my heart was throbbing deep and hard in my chest. I breathed quickly, trying to pull myself together, trying to reorganize the thoughts that flashed through my mind. My little brother met me at the door. At first he hesitated uncertainly and then, with a slight restraint and doubt, he looked into my face studying it for reaction. His voice was soft and innocent, his eyes were unsure.

"Johnny,” he said. "Grandpa’s gone away. A big car came and got him.” He did not smile for he was not sure that he should. He only spoke his words and waited.

The August sun dropped beneath the Ohio hills mrning the golden sunset into an evening pathway for the stars. A lonely whippoorwill took up its song, echoing in the woods, over the fields, across the creeks, and into the distant hills. Slowly the first evening star made an appearance. The tree tops shivered in the night air. A dark mist fell over the earth, growing deeper with each second. I remem­ bered the day before.

A rag, in my hand, swished quickly across the piano picking up the fine layer of dust.

"Johnny?” It was Grandpa, what could he want now?

"The meat’s done.” he said walking into the room. Suddenly his eyes fell on the picture in my hand. It was my graduation picture.

Carefully I set it down on the piano top, right in the center. His eyes glanced down to the picture that had once occupied the spot. That was his. But mine was bigger and it was in color too; of course it didn’t look like me, it really made me look older. Even though he was ten years older now, his piaure looked like him. It was true that he had aged a lot in those ten years. The gray hair had grown thinner, the blue eyes were more deeply sunken. But the picture was really like him, the friendly smile, the glance of pride, the knowledge from the past, the faith in the future. Understanding reflected in that face—understanding such as I would never know.

"I’ll be right out,” I said.

■rhe rest of the family had gone visiting so we ate our supper together. It was a light meal, steak which he had helped fry and salad which I had quickly made. He asked the blessing, reverently as he always had.

"Tomorrow I think I’ll go to town,” he said. "Your Dad said that he would take me when he goes to work.”

How he loved to go to town! I don’t think he ever really liked the country but he had come because he wanted to help his son on the farm. In town was his old home. There his oldest son had died while yet a boy. There his wife had lived and was buried. His friends were there. Standing on the street corner, sitting on a park bench, working behind a counter, they were all his friends for he had Thirty-one

made them so. There was the church where he and his wife had started their life and where their caskets would be closed for the last time.

It dawned on me that I had a book over-due at the library so I ran upstairs to get it.

"If mother isn’t home before I leave for work, could you give this book to her?” I asked.

He assured me that he would.

After the meal I went into the living room to watch T.V. and he into his own room where he read the Bible. It was a daily habit which he devotedly followed.

"I’m seventy years old now,” he once remarked. "And I’ve been workin’ for the Lord since I was a boy.”

The evening passed quickly and soon it was time for me to leave for my week’s work in a neighboring town.

"I’ll be home next weekend,” I said as I handed him the book.

"Be sure and give this to mother.”

"O.K.” he assured.

"Now don’t forget—,” my voice trailed for I knew he easily forgot such things.

He stood in the doorway, waving, as the car pulled away. In his hand was a small book and a smile spread across his face. The light from the house broke through the doorway, out onto the porch, and disappeared on the dew-damp grass. The stars filtered through the sky. A gentle breeze rustled across the earth.

Late the next afternoon the telephone rang and I answered "Hello.”

"John?”

"Yes.” It was mother. Her voice was forced and quivering.

"Grandpa’s dead,” she said. "Could you come home?”

A MA MERE PAULEITE LOOP '60

Pouiquoi t’ai-je quittee le coeur l^ger Apres avoir vu sur ta douce figure Les larmes que nous a donates la Nature Toraber silencieuses de tes yeux mouillfe?

Pourquoi t’ai-je dit adieu sans penser A la cruelle douleur qu’une mtre endure .■\u grand depart de sa progeniture Sur I’ocean qui va les separer?

Mais e’est a moi maiiUenant de soulfrir, Car i'implacable destin t’a arrach^e Si brusquement que je me sens mourir Des remorcis que m’accable ta penste, Que ton ame repose en paix cependant, La mort nous scparc que pour un moment.

Thirty-two

SHOW US THE WAY TO THE POND FRANCINE THOMPSON '69

"What’s that? What’s that?’’ asked the old timer sitting in front of the unpainted, run-down porch of the general store.

Old Jake Peabody had been living in Coon Valley for as long as anyone could remember. He was the village, well, I guess you couldn’t say idiot—he was more a harmless, illiterate old man. Really, he was intelligent. It was just that he had grown up in a period of time when few people had an opportunity for learning reading and writing.

Four small boys were playing near the porch.

One of them shouted at old Jake saying, "Hey, Jake, show us the way to the pond.”

Then one of the others laughed and pointed at him. Old Jake lived in the middle of a forest near the edge of town. At the back of his shack, a swamp began and became deeper and deeper until it broadened into Miller Pond. Mothers and fathers of Coon Valley forbade their children to go into the woods because of the danger of the swamp.

"Sorry, sonny, your ma wouldn’t like it,” the old man answered, sighing with a longing for the companionship of the boys.

Living alone was not easy, but he could not afford the luxury of town life. He sighed again and stood up in preparation for going home.

"Wish I could, boys, but I can’t. Gotta’ go now.”

The old man began to trudge down the road, his shoulders drooping and his clothes sagging on his thin frame.

After about half an hour’s walk in the forest, he came to his shack.

It was brightly lighted and music was playing. He couldn’t figure it out. Expecting to see the usual dreary, dark shack, he stopped in the middle of the path.

"What’s wrong?” he thought. Maybe, some gangsters are hiding out here. What should I do? Maybe, they’ll kill me.”

His wildly beating heart beat more rapidly. He felt as if he could hardly contain this beating mechanism between the walls of his body, it throbbed so much. Mustering up his courage, he slowly walked to the door and opened it. Inside were four boys gaily playing harmonicas and singing.

"Well, what’d you know?” old Jake said in surprise. "How did you boys get here?”

"We just followed you for a way. When you stopped to rest, we kept going. At first we got lost, but then Gary saw this building.

It was almost dark and we were afraid,” answered one of the boys.

"Well, boys, I’m afraid you’ll have to leave,” the old man forced himself to say. "Your folks ’ull be worried sick about ya’. They don’t know you’ve come here, do they?”

"No,” answered a tall, lanky, red-haired boy. "They think we’re Say, I’m hungry. How about something to eat?”

"I guess I could feed you first,” the old man said, "but mind, you’ll Thirty-three

have to leave then. 111 direct you back myself to make sure you get there. This woods is kind of easy to git lost in after dark.”

The man busied himself at an old, black stove and soon a warm heat was coming into the shack. He opened some cans and set them on top of the stove to heat the contents.

Gee! exclaimed one boy. This is just like camping out.”

The old man turned from the stove and smiled. He was glad to have company. It had been such a long time since anyone had come to see him at the shack. He had never married and had children of his own. He’d been to busy making money which did him no good. The stock market crash took it all. One thing folks could say about him, though, he took it on the chin. ” He didn’t commit suicide like other persons, but just stopped trying and moved into the mrest. Hed been a farmer before the crash, but a prosperous one He hadn t been the ordinary soil-tiller. Everything he owned had been mortgaged to buy stocks. The crash just ended things for him and he became the town "no-good.”

After gulping down the beans and soup, the boys began to anxiously look out of the smudgy, dirty window.

"Well, I guess I’d better take ya’ back,” the old man said "It has been fun having you here. We'll take a short-cut and get you home sooner.”

■' He lighted a lantern and they started into the woods.

"Please, Jake,” whined one of the boys. "We came out here to see the pond. Can’t you show it to us before we go? We mav never have another chance to see it.”

Hoping to keep the boys’ company for a while longer, the old man began to skirt the swamp, leading the way to the pond. The mud was slippery and the boys had to hold on to one another to keep from losing their balance.

As they neared the pond, Gary began jumping up and down shout­ ing, "I can see it!”

He ran across the slippery mud and climbed the nearest tree, a weak old willow. As he scooted out to the end of a limb, it suddenly broke and Gary began bobbing around in the swamp water. Without thinking, old Jake waded into the water. Soon it became too deep so he began to swim. He grabbed Gary by the shirt collar and began to tow him to the muddy path which was a bit firmer than the mucky swamp bottom. ^ One of the boys grabbed Gary’s arm and towed him upon the path As they were helping Gary, Jake’s head went under the water. The boys turned around to thank Jake, but he was no where to be seen.

Just then a flash of light appeared and an anxious mother veiled "Gary! Mel! Nelson! Bill! Are you O.K.?” ^ They eagerly embraced their parents.

"Hey! Look!” shouted one of the men. "What’s that?”

Jake had come up and was gasping for breath. One of the men moved to help him. He was dragged up on the muddy path but didn t open his eyes. ^ ^ ’ Thirty-four

"It’s all your fault the boys are here!” shouted an angry father.

Old Jake didn’t move.

"I fell in ... he tried to help me,” sobbed Gary. By this time all of the other boys had begun to cry, also.

"The town 'no-good’ . . . My boy . . . What have we done?” breathed the boy’s father.

AUTUMN CLEORA FULLER

’53

The maples burn and smoulder on the hill; The oaks spread far and wide their purple cry; The ash of goldenrod lies everywhere; Sumac and sassafras, now brilliant, dye The fields where autumn grass lies spent, unkempt.

Patient beneath the keen autumnal air.

Storing endurance for the winter blast Coming so surely when the trees are bare.

For all this throb and pulse of autumn fire.

This wide-flung glory of departing leaves.

The heart swells to the rounded blue of sky And yet for summer’s quiet greenness grieves.

While soft mauve clouds of asters do their part To ease the ache of autumn in the heart.

RUBAIYAT - 1959* CLEORA FULLER ’63 I Recall, Love, how we thrilled to old Khayyam— The Shape of clay, the Sorry Scheme, we’d scan?

Without our help they’ve shattered it to bits; Loud-speakers call to prayer in Te’heran.

II With you, my chosen Freshmen, have I wrought; The noun and verb, e’en comma have I taught.

And now as my red pencil checks—and checks— On this—and this—O, was it all for naught?

III When April brings white violets in the grass.

And overhead wild ducks at evening pass.

Then am I fickle to my winter loves.

And leave forgotten Hearth and Book and Glass.

IV Omar wrought his tents with goodly skill; His words he wove with even better will.

The tents have vanished but the words remain— Man’s thought outlasts its earthly shelter still, *Not necessarily in commemoration of the fact that Edward Fitzgerald’s "The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam" was first published in 1859.

Thirty-five

CHRISTMAS THEN AND NOW PHILIP O. DEEVER '34

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The birth of Jesus long ago— Our Savior and our Christ is heIn Bethlehem, Judaea’s town, Occurred on hay for you and me.

Today in cities of the world.

If large or small or bad or good.

The Lord of heaven enters in.

Do you receive him as you should?

EPISODE ETHEL SHELLEY STEINMETZ ’31

I looked up from my desk and saw him standing there A folded sheet of yellow paper in his hand.

Heres something I would like to have you read,” he said And gave the sheet to me. ’ It was a poem of two stanzas—each, six lines About the pain of Life, and Nature's ruthlessness. through and looked up at his boyish face— All flushed with eagerness.

Its beautiful,” I said, but did not dare to add, I do not understand it. I’m not young enough To feel Life’s force so keenly. Through the yelrs we learn To temper the sharp pain.” bctiutiful,” I said again, "I like this phraseAnd this hne-here.” His eyes were serious as he took The yel ow paper back from me. "Thank you,” he said And walked away. ^

Thirty-six

THE CITY J. GORDON

HOWARD ’22

Bishop, The Evangelical United Brethren Church A city is such a mixture of things.

It has churches with steepled fingers pointing the faithful to God; And it has hideaways where underworld denizens viciously intrigue to exploit men’s weaknesses.

It has symphony orchestras: And it has saloons.

It has art galleries; And it has brothels.

It has parks; And it has alleys where rats grow fat and children grow thin.

It has schools; And it has reformatories.

It has politicians who skillfully practice the science of government; And it has politicians who skillfully practice the acquisition of the dishonest dollar under the table.

A city is such a mixture of things.

It has libraries filled with books; And it has streets filled with holes.

It has Shakespeare for 25-cents at the corner book-stall; And it has smut for 25-cents at the corner book-stall.

It has warm homes - affectionately warm that is - where happy children love to be; It has cold castles - affectionately cold that is - where wondering children peer at signs which say ‘‘Keep Off The Grass.”

It has policemen to uphold the law; And in different citizens who ignore the law.

It has hospitals; And it has a giddy pace calculated to fill the hospitals.

It has institutions for the mentally ill; And it has pressures and irrationalities which produce the mentally ill.

It has fabled super-markets and laden tables; And it has scavengers rooting for a crust to take home in a paper sack to waiting children.

A city has workers, artists, scholars and saints.

A city has crooks, bums, sharpies and schemers.

Is a city good? Yes. Is a city bad? Yes. A city is such a mixture of things.

■vV

FOG BLANCHE WINIFRED CEHRES

’60

Like a veil of filmy chiffon The fog drapes the trees Engulfing them In the misty atmosphere Of Another world.

Thirty-seven

WHAT'S IN A NAME WALT VERNON ’61

Second Prize, Quiz and Quill Prose argTmet tirimT'LA

imagination,

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It must have Lme n^e in Ider m InroT'^ living quarters, to resister us for cnerif V*’ grades and accomplishments. Whaf is our‘'naS?^'^

us to certain

We give some name—Hall Thrash r;nai;„„ c • i c^ might As yet, it ha; no me;ning an Snknl"'"''" tity like a, b, or c in trisonomerrv \y7„ „ ” unknown quanadding individuality to t mere "Lme” pj, t^dertake a process of from now it will hLe takenTn a ^rf • ^"t^r or five years our fellow students and professors. TWrty^offom T °f It may well have a certain distincdon of" ks “wn itl power of each of us to have a name which is a nime

maTh:eerdlxrgTorv^rho°n^^^^^^^^^ Sorest US by our parents It mav nn^ ® i given to fcr, but nevertheless it was the choice oTouVpamms has been called Adriel or Homer who wnniJ u ^ ^ ^ known as Sonny or Bill Let rhar h • ^ tnuch rather have been ch«„s.,^h. n^e w brXS” ith“ "isToi? >■'

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Thirty-eight

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MY TWO MOST MEMORABLE CHARACTERS AUCE SANDERS REED

’26

Awarded first prize in non-fiction prose, American Association of University Women, Virginia, 1958.

In the second year of our living in blacked-out Bermuda during World War II we occupied a guest-house in town. It sat, queen-high amid its green lawns and sunken gardens, catering to a war-tossed group far different from the usual carefree tourist. In the dimly lit, wood-shuttered dining room we took dinner each night—^govern­ ment and civil servants, a schoolmaster, an engineer, and a good many people speaking several languages from the censorship corps the British had recruited to inspea all air-mails. One or two sick-leave Canadians were billeted to us later and in mid-season an emergency space was found for two unusual newcomers.

A crippled Dutch scrap-iron freighter had limped into our Dock­ yard for repairs and these newcomers were Scandinavians, officers of the ship. Men with slender young bodies—but with old, lined faces beneath the blond stubble of beard and hair. In each the light eyes were flat with the memory of too much. And in both there was a slow, besetting numbness of word and gesture which rightfully belongs only to the aged. They ate and drank and spoke sparingly and with difficulty. All of it was the more painful because so pent-up. Some­ times one wished to, but no one screamed—except the tall, thin Scandinavian in his sleep. It was he who had seen his family ravaged or murdered before his eyes; had somehow escaped prison labor-camp and so joined up with the Netherlands, his nearest ally across the border. In more than a year he had had no word of any kind from home or relatives. At first it had been enough to work out his grief and hate in twenty-four hour stretches of duty on the ship. But now suddenly he no longer had strength to work or hate and continuously he tried to sleep but could not—except to dream and scream himself awake in the new nightmare of old realities.

His companion was shorter by a head, with less of the Viking look; he was in fact more stolid in frame of mind and body. Once his feet were lifted off the ship, he could only sleep, and wake to sleep again.

He blinked in a sort of stupor through long afternoons, nodded over hospitable aips of tea, could hardly be roused from his bed in the mornings. He had survived three separate torpedo attacks on the wintry high seas, abandoning ship in the last two to toss in small boats through the agonies of endless hours of fear and desolation on the black Atlantic. For him, now, the short focus of his existence had become a sort of hibernating torpor to preserve the dimly flickering candle of life withdrawn upon itself.

Safe for the moment in our snug island, we knew both pity and pride for these two. They had served, were still serving each in his own way. We did what we could for them in our turn. We saw bodies and nerves fill out, tensions ease somewhat with food and warmth and peace and quiet. More than we ourselves could do.

Thirty-nine

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ALONE ON CHRISTMAS EVE JULIA NICHOLAS '59

The tiny form Screamed and crumpled To the icy pavement As the big, black car Swished passed.

In the distance Chimes Pealed the familiar “Deck the Halls” But no one Heard the whimper As the tiny form pushed its weight Up onto its knees.

On the corner The Plump man In a red suit with white fur Laughed a robust “Hoi Ho! Ho!” As he shook the chain of sleighbells.

Shoppers With arms full of packages Scurried by As it the tiny form were not there.

Finally Realumg^that no one would stop and help Crept foreward on hands and knees Into the slushy, busy street And picked up the broken doll.

Forty

THE CABBAGE LADY JOHN PAYTON ’59

Third Prize {tie), Quiz and Quill Prose A stained, dark blue denim apron covered the front of a faded print dress that fitted loosely on the stunted little lady that stood behind her cabbage stand in the midst of a rambling vegetable market. As she busied herself with arranging the large, greenish-blue heads, her straggling, gray-brown hair could not be completely contained in a dirty, cotton scarf. The copper-brown skin of her face was creased and folded by a multitude of lines that radiated from the corners of her eyes, from her forehead, and down from her nose and around her mouth. Wide brown eyes glanced quickly over her prized cab­ bages and reflected the toil and patience that went into raising them.

A light gray wool sweater clung to her shoulders and arms and looked as if she never took it off. The cuffs were ragged and her elbows protruded through large holes in the sleeves. She wiped her hands hastily on her apron, leaving fresh streaks of wet dirt. Her withered, wrinkled, brown hands reached out over her many cabbages and then, selecting one with large, sprawling leaves, she held it up away from the others in her shaking arms. She ran her tongue quickly over her thin lips and her eyes wrinkled into a twinkling dance as she whispered, "Nice, huh?”

A SICK FRIEND JAMES NUHFER ’59

There is no person lonelier than one who lies in bed and must rely on others to be comforted and fed— who never has a visitor to talk to him and smile and make the life he has to live a little more worth-while.

He for but the

doesn’t ask for magazines, candy, fruit and such Just a friendly visit and word that means .so much.

He wants to see the sun come out in place of all the rain and know that someone cares about his trouble and his pain.

And surely somewhere out of all the moments made for play there must be time to call on him and say "hello” today.

Forty-one

WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS-INTERPRETER OF AN AGE DON STORF.R '60

William Dean Howells in his novel, The Rise of Silas Lapham, gives a critical opinion of the romanticized self-made man concept.

The novel is said by many to be the classic treatment of the self-made idea.

The author presents his story in a rather realistic manner. For instance, the reader is introduced to Silas Lapham, the capitalist about whom the story is written, through the eyes of Bartley Hubbard, a newspaper-man interviewing Colonel Lapham for an article in a Boston newspaper. Through the interview (which comprises the first chapter of the book), we see the Colonel telling his life story to Hubbard. The reader notes that Lapham was born in Vermont and has lived about fifty-five years. In the Colonel’s words, "... and I’ve lived ’em too; not an hour of waste about me anywheres!” Lapman is a native Vermonter. We can infer from this fact that he will be by namre, a blunt—yes, even a crude sort of man. As the story develops, one can see by his mannerisms that the Colonel is indeed a typical New Englander. Another inference we can make is that Lapham is, and always has been, a hard worker. This fact is con­ tinually presented throughout the book. In fact, when a financial crisis looms near, Lapham works so hard that he nearly drives himself to nervous exhaustion. The story, then, revolves around Silas Lapham, a hard-working, self-made New Englander.

On further examination of the novel, one sees that Lapham’s formne has been made in the paint business. We are introduced to Lapham in the beginning hard at work in his almost monopolistic paint factory. Silas says of his paint, "You can use it for almost anything where a paint is wanted, inside or out. It’ll prevent decay, or it’ll stop it after it’s begun, in tin or iron. You can paint the inside of a cistern or a bathtub with it, and water won’t hurt it; and you can paint a steam boiler with it and heat won’t.” One can see, then, that Silas indeed has an extraordinary paint, and with no com­ petition, it seems as if the paint magnate has no cares. The worries come, however, because later in the story, a group of West Virginians bring out an equally good paint and begin to cut into Silas’ business.

The timing of the competition is highly unfortunate for Lapham, because he has lost a great deal of money in bad speculations. Silas tries bravely to find a way of selling out his empire, buying the West Virginian’s business, or combining the two; but seemingly there is to be no way out of his dilemma. Near the end of the story, we see the once-proud Colonel, now quite deflated (and much more likeable) selling most of his prized possessions to satisfy his creditors. Through­ out the main plot of the story, we see many extra touches, distinctively belonging to Howells. For example, the egotistic Vermonter is pre­ sented in his relations with Bostonian society; a love theme runs more or less artificially through the story; and many side comments on the art of realistic writing are included. Percy H. Boynton, a famous writer and scholar, sums the story up in this way. "The blunt Ver­ Forty-two

monter is set in contrast with the frayed aristocracy of Boston. He amasses a fortune, becomes involved in speculation, in business in­ justice, and in ruin. But whatever Howells had to say of social and economic forces, he said of powers as impersonal as gravitation. Busi­ ness was business, and the man subjeaed to it was subjected to in­ fluences as capricious but as inevitable as the climate of New England.

The critics of our modern age of realistic writing seem to dissect Howells’ work in The Rise of Silas Laphatn quite severely. Vernon L. Farrington says, "There are more scruples to a page of Howells than to any other writer, except Henry James—for the most part filrny cobwebs invisible to the coarser vision of a later generation. It is hard to weave a substantial fabric from such gossamer threads, and when in The Rise of Silas Lapham, endless pages are devoted to the ethical subleties of a woman’s accepting the hand of a man whom the family had believed was in love with her sister, the stuff is too filmy to wear well.” Professor Farrington is referring here to the extended and rather romanticized courtship of Mr. 'Tom Corey (an associate of Lapham’s in the paint business and a member of the Boston aristocracy of the time) with first Miss Irene Lapham; then, after some misunder­ standing by others of poor Corey’s affections. Miss Penelope Lapham.

(In the end, Penelope and Corey marry and move to South America, where he sells paint for the West Virginians who literally ran Lapham out of business.) Howells’ handling of this phase of the novel is indeed quite "filmy”; however, one common school of thought on the romantic phases of Howell’s writings tells us that the author purposely inserted rather sentimental episodes in order to satirize sorne of the rather maudlin writing of his contemporaries. By way of justifying Howells’ work in this phase of the story, I turn again to Mr. Boynton’s opinion: "Howells’ books of this period [referring to the 1870’s and 1880’s when The Rise of Silas Lapham was written] were the work of a well-trained, unprejudiced observer whose ambition was to make contributions to the slice-of-life fiction, selecting his slices off the top and serving them daintily.” We see, then, that William Dean Howells was not striving to prey upon the Gothic sense of sensationalism in writing, but simply to report life as he saw it. Even though we consider Howells to be a realistic writer, we must not forget that his age was one of idealism, and some of the romantic concepts were bound to creep into his writing. My conclusion, then, is that Howells reported what to him was real life in most of his novel. The Rise of Silas Lapham.

The reader notes in studying Howells’ story of the self-made man that rather than present any radical characters or incidents, _ Howells seems to tell of the rather common man of the time. 'This fact is evident in his characterizations. We see some people who are aris­ tocratic, some who are quite plain and level-headed, and others who are ambitious and will work hard to gain their self-ascribed goals. In short, it is my belief that the characters help to move the story quite simply and realistically. In A Reader’s History of American Litera­ ture, the authors express themselves about Howells writing in the following way: "He describes his methods very frankly, and his first Forty-three

&7„

dents quite realistically and without unneeded^nff aracters and met prudish maiden of any society.

William Dean Howells, by way of definition of realism said Realism IS nothing more, nothing less, than the truthful treament of mdeavors. The p.of™ 3.„„ hi, Howells was true to what he saw-certainlv nn erno 1, imu qoudi exactly the thin substance of the Age of Innocenc?”Tbeheve“°he significance of Partington's statement lies in the fact that EfowSs was certainly a realistic portrayer of what he saw; but what hrsaw was not always the substance of the stuff we would call true real sm by our values. The conclusion then i-: rhaf reansm Howells with an awareness of the age in which he wrot?“'' One person who seems to be aware of the importance of Howells’ literary environment is Fred L Pattee Hf> cr^fpc Jr. i • k i ® T> j- A -. ne states in his book, Centm'i Readings tn Amencm Literature, "Many of the critics who have damned connection with his ■■ ■ Tk regarded as a I'l k^^^ way in ^ich a maiden of Boston’s society in 1880 would have crit^ized Howell’s work and the manner in which we must approach Howells are two entirely different considerations. I believe Professor Partington gives one of the finest summations of Howells work in relation to our modern age in his book. The Begin­ nings of Critical Realism m America-. "The current school of realism IS inclined to deal harshly with Howells. His quiet reticences, his obtrusive morality, his genial optimism, and his dislike of looking ugly facts in the face, are too old“fashioned today to please the professional purveyors of our current disgusts. They find his writings as tedious as the gossip of old ladies.

I think I can cite no better evidence to clinch the point that to appreciate Howells, one must see him as a literary figure of the nineteenth century, not the middle of the twentieth.

I found The Rise of Silas Lapham to be a very interesting reading experience. I particularly enjoyed the detail Howells applied to the seemingly insignificant items. The concreteness of the charaaerizations, the vivid descriptions which almost enable one to see the action, and the particular "believable” namre of the plot all make the novel particularly intriguing. Of course, I found some of the romantic ideas which have been mentioned in the beginning of the analysis, but they didn’t seem to detract from my appreciation and enjoyment of the novel. I particularly liked the subtle manner in which the author brought in his ideas on love and realism in fiaion. In my final estimation, I must say that I enjoyed the story from the standpoint that it is representative of an age. The value of reading such a book is simply that of helping us to see how the new realism of Howells’ Forty-four

time was slowly working its way into our complicated American literary life, and analysis of Howells’ work also helps us to compare beginning realism with our contemporary writing. One critic, looking at William Dean Howells as a figure of an age says, "Whatver may be one’s final judgment of his work, it is certain that for twenty years he was a prophet of realism to his generation, the leader of a movement to turn American literature from the path of romanticism and bring it face to face with the real and actual.” This, then, is the real way to appreciate such a book as Howells’ the Rise of Silas Lapham, One must see it at the beginning of a literary movement, certainly not at the end. I am sure that I value my reading the book more now, after seeing it in its proper perspective.

Our judgements of realism and the conclusions reached by critics in regard to The Rise of Silas Lapham have convinced me that realism, like dress, changes its characteristics; and one must consider realistic writing in that light. If one looks at Howells’ writing in view of this fact, I believe it holds up quite well.

REBIRTH SARAH ROSE ’56

I know how it must be to die and lie beneath the dark wet earth until the golden trumpet breaks thru crust of clod and lets the light fall on my face.

I know this, for I have in part been dead before, to rise again when next your footsteps crossed my door and life was here with you.

THE GIFT VANDWILLA HACKMAN ’60

What will I do with this thing at my feet?

A gift of love might be a little thing, A priceless treasure to the one who gives And yet of question to the one who gets.

The neighbor’s collie wanted to be friends.

I threw a stick; she brought it gaily back.

I threw it further then, a greater length.

The collie paused, inspired, she wagged her tail.

She brought her treasure, laid it at my feet.

She’s looking up at me, what can I say?

One doesn’t get a dead mouse every day!

Forty-five

LES CLOCHES PAULETTE LOOP ’60

Dans un paisible village Vivaient de simples paysans, Et dans la petite eglise Les cloches tintaient quotidiennement.

Un jour sans donner de raison La guerre atteint les habitants, Et dans la petite dglise Les cloches tintaient bien tristement.

L’ennemi marchait dans les rues, Vainqueur, cruel et arrogant, Et dans la petite tglisc Les cloches tintaient dodlement.

L’ennemi, tr6s her de sa force, Ex^cutait les m<5contents, Et dans la petite eglise Les clochc-s tintaient lugubrement.

Dans le pauvre petit village Les raois passant devinrent des ans, Et dans la petite eglise Les clotlics tintaient bien amfcrement.

Mais dans les coeurs brulait une llamme Qui s’attisait avec le temps, Et dans la petite eglise Les cloches tintaient tr^s patiemment.

Car la dtlivrance etait proche Avec Allies et coeurs vaillants, Et dans la petite eglise Les cloches tintaient fi6vreusement.

Chacun pris part a la bataille Chassant I’cnnemi a tons les vents, Et dans la petite dglise Les cloches tintaient heroiquement.

Les villageois heureux enfin Pouvaient retourner a leurs champs, Et dans la petite 6glise Les cloches tintaient joyeusement.

TROPICAL LOVE SONG VANDWILLA HACKMAN ’60

Palms dance, Sea throbs.

By night I sing.

Coquil Coquil Song green.

Heart full, I call The moon.

I love!

I cry!

Tree toad Am I. Coquil Coquil Coquil

REFLECTION DUAN

ROTH

’59

speak oh nacreous soul and in thy musing eternal whisper say whence thou comest what myriad scenes of coral reef and sand and cave were thy first dawn

yH.-

dost thou remember thy beginning the birth of lasting beauty and did the pregnant virgin sands of time and ocean’s murky floor bring you to me as to a child did ancient bards their gifts bestow a valued stone of spirit-sphere whose iridescent echo sings a glowing dream of time before till now unknown to mortal man art thou content with present worlds or dost thou long for raven seas thy home an ever rolling cradle of twisting sweeping tumbling seas now whisper to my fertile ear the knowledge thou must now possess the secret sung by nature’s child the song of worlds beneath the sea that I might glean allusive truths from constant worlds of evermore in muted voice your spirit realm sings answer to despair and need LIFE EARL W.

NEWBERC ’60

Life Is a battery Corroded By the sins of man, And recharged By the Son of God. TO A. B. PATRICIA SPEER ’69

If only love could die When friendships have to end, Then hearts might be at peace And they could love again; Or if angry words Might be cast aside.

Then weaker souls thus freed Could lose their foolish pride; But love was meant to last.

And words too long endure.

So make your friends and words In strength, lasting, and pure.

Forty-seven

THE YOUNG GUNMAN JOHN PATTON ’59 He moved quickly and surely upstairs, Skipping ever other step.

Going hastily to his room, He threw His thin jacket on the freshly-made bed.

He hurriedly lucked in his plaid flannel shirt.

And pulled his Levis more lightly around his waist.

His slender arm Reached for his gunbelt that hung on the closet door.

A big, shiny buckle secured The wide belt around his haunches, and suddenly He felt much taller.

And very strong.

He closed the room door tightly.

Swiftly and silently.

He made his way back down the stairs.

He went into a larger room.

And crossed rapidly to the far corner.

He pulled up a stool.

Straddled it for a moment.

His short legs just reaching around.

His sensitive fingers closed around the gun butt.

And he felt the reassuring ripples, of the bone-like handle.

In his excited grip.

He sat down quickly.

And faced the corner.

His hand reached out eagerly to turn The selector knob For his favorite television hero.

Paladin.

THE WAIT THOMAS liUCKINGIlAM '59

He paced to the end of the room, lit a cigarette, pivoted, and paced back again. He glanced up at the clock; it was 2:18, two minutes later than the last time he looked. His face was white and drawn, his hair was uncombed, and his tie hung loosely on an open-necked white shirt. He ground out his cigarette and snatched up a magazine. After flipping through the pages for a second or two, he threw it down, lit another cigarette, and strode to the other end of the room. He stared out of the window to the busy street below, nervously flicking imaginary ashes from his cigarette at a distant ashtray.

"Mr. Walker,” called a voice from behind him.

"Yes, yes, here!”

A look of relief and joy spread over his face as the voice continued.

"It’s a boy; both mother and baby are doing fine.”

Forty-eight

FINANCIAL SECURITY

Honorable Mention, NSAL Short Story Contest, 19^8 JAMES NUHFER ’59

John Boyd preferred living his life to thinking about it, but now and then he could not avoid thinking. This was such a night. It was aummn and through the picture windows one could see the treetops and the sublime scattering of stars in the sky. A small lamp glowed in the corner. Everything was quiet. The two children were alseep in their rooms at the other end of the house. John Boyd leafed through the many bills received in the day’s mail. He took up each one, examined it closely, then looked around him at the richly furnished room. He especially admired the new wall-to-wall carpet­ ing, on which the payments were thirty dollars and eighty-six cents a month. John was proud of his economic status and did not pass up an opportunity to boast about his acquisitions in life.

It still worried John, though not often, to buy on installment. He and his brother, Jim, had been brought up by stern parents whose first commandment was, "Thou shalt do without what thou canst not afford.” He remembered well his brother Jim’s disappointment when he was unable to go to college. The family didn’t have the means to send him to college and as a result Jim took a job with Mr. Sheffer who owned the corner grocery. Jim had helped send John through school. The saying of John’s grandmother still rang in his ears, "Our family cat will not eat food set before her if someone says it’s not paid for.”

As he glanced around the room dreamily he could scarcely recall the second-story apartment in Birchard Flats where he and Mary had begun housekeeping a few years ago. It was a nice flat with undis­ tinguished neighbors. Nothing compared with the split level on Pleasant Hill which they now partially owned. Ten years ago John would not have bought a loaf of bread on credit, and the idea of a four-bedroom, three-bathroom, split level on a half acre of land, with elegant furniture, wall-to-wall carpeting, two television sets, a dish­ washer, two cars and two hi-fi sets, would have been as unreal to him as another world. Yet here he was sitting pretty.

By being aggressive and venturesome, and lucky, too, he had raised himself to a superior level, a level far above Birchard Flats. If he had done so much in the last ten years, what might he do in the next dozen?

As he was refleaing, he was interrupted by a knock at the door.

John could see in the shadow of the stoop a man shifting nervously from one foot to the other. John snapped on the light. "For Pete’s sakes! Jim! How are you?” John said, "I was just thinking about you. How’s Donna?”

"Fine. How’s Mary and the kids?”

"Great, Jim. Mary’s out to a meeting or something and the children are sleeping. I’m baby sitting.”

"Have a few minutes to talk, John?”

"Sure, let me take your coat. Where’s Donna?”

Forty-nine

"Oh, she had to tend the store for me tonight.”

"How are your youngsters? Growing I suppose?”

"Sure are. You wouldn’t know them.”

"It was Christmas since we last saw you folks. How is that grocery of yours?”

"Oh, pretty good, I guess.”

"Well, now that’s no way for a fella to talk about his business, but you always were modest, Jim.” "Gee, this is sure some place you have here. It’s rather hard to pack up and leave for visiting when you’re trying to build up a business. Donna said to tell Mary she’s sorry she hasn’t gotten over before this.”

"Oh, I know how that goes. Mary’s been busy these days too with her weekly card club and the country club. We don’t seem to have a free moment either.”

Jim looked appreciatively about him. "Remember those flats we had when we were first married, John?”

"Sure do. Those were the days.”

"Donna and I have bought our own place now, nothing like this though.”

Jim was eight years older than John and strongly felt he should have succeeded first or equally as well as his younger brother. But John had a college education and had always worked hard to get ahead.

Jim wore a blue suit that was old and faintly shiny, but neatly pressed. John suspected that his shirt collar had been turned.

'The two men were ill at ease. 'They had grown apart since John’s first promotion, and it had gone so far that they hadn’t visited each other’s homes since a year ago Christmas. What did Jim want, thought John. Was he in trouble? Money! I’ll bet he wants money! Aloud John questioned, "Care for a drink?”

"Sure.”

"Be back in a jiff. Make yourself comfortable.”

John had gone to the kitchen for the drinks. He had pondered the chasm between them. They had been very close during the early years of their lives and had married about the same time. They had lived in the same small flats and had shared similar problems, high rents and crowded schools. They had played bridge together, eaten meals together and gone shopping for groceries together in Jim’s old second-hand car. At that time John saw no prospect of owning one. The thought of buying on installment was out of the question.

John smiled to himself as he thought of how unsophisticated he had been then, how bound he had been to the code of another era.

I’ll give him some of this imported bourbon, John thought. He’s probably never had anything like that before—sure would impress him.

But as John reached for the bottle he happened to see the carton of beer his wife had brought home yesterday. I’ll give him that, thought John. After all, he wouldn’t appreciate good whisky. Our lives have been so different.

Fifty

He picked up the glasses and carried them to the living room careful not to spill any liquid on the new carpeting.

"Here you are, Jim. Ice cold.”

"Thanks, John. I sure can’t get over it. You, John, of all people —a beautiful house, two cars, the works.”

"Well, business has been good. Mr. Arnell had a heart attack and that left me pretty well in charge.”

"Sorry to hear about Arnie but I’m glad for you, John.”

"Come along, Jim, I’ll show you around the place. If you care to see it?”

"Ok, I’d like it very much.”

With glasses in hand, they walked quietly from bedroom to bed­ room pretending to be interested in seeing the children. John was quick to point out various expensive pieces of furniture.

"My den,” John explained, "another television set—but mostly I’m busy when I’m in here.”

"Always business I suppose?”

"Sure thing, day and night.”

John pointed out the family room to Jim. "Another hi-fi set, so the kids can listen to their favorites and Mary and I can hear ours in the living room.”

"You sure have a beautiful place here, John.”

"Thanks, that’s kind of you to say.” John was gratified; there was no doubt that Jim was impressed. Hope it doesn’t give him ideas thought John.

As the two men walked slowly back to the livingroom, John noticed a tension in his brother’s voice as he said, "John—well, I may as well get to the point. I need five thousand dollars right away to save my business.”

"Five thousand dollars?”

"Yes, you know we were taught never to borrow or buy on time and I know how you must feel toward me for breaking that standard but, John, I’m desperate. I’ve renovated the store recently and I must have it.”

"Well, it’s a lot of money, Jim.” "I know, John, I shouldn’t have come. Just forget it.” Jim got up from his chair and paced nervously before the broad window.

"No, sit down, Jim. I’ll get you another beer and we’ll talk more about it. Excuse me, won’t you?”

Once John reached the kitchen he stood gazing out the small west window in deep thought. He thought about the debts that consumed his monthly pay check. He felt he had proper grounds for refusal but what would it do to his pride? John mentally itemized the bills: sixty-nine dollars and seventeen cents on the Lincoln and thirty dollars and twenty-eight cents for the station wagon. There was food, clothing, electricity, phone, insurances, payments on the new carpeting, and Mary was saving for new furniture for the recreation room. 'That didn’t even take in the house payment, country club dues and a lot of other things. He didn’t have a single cent saved other than Mary’s two hundred dollars.

Fifty-one

It just wasn t fair, John mused—why didn’t Jim get a better job. just becau^ you have a house like this doesn’t give a guy the right to go asking for money. So he was short, that was the peril of running ones own business. Why didn’t he think of that before. Suppose did lend him the money, he may be back for more, this could go on orever. What might Mary say? Why can’t he go to the bank like did. Just then John heard the faint echo of his parents’ first comrnandment in his ear, "Thou shalt not buy what thou canst not alford.

He walked to the refrigerator and took the beers from the shelf. e remembered the good times they had had together before he moved to Pleasant Hill. The small flat, the second-hand car and all seemed to soften him.

I could explain to Jim about the monthly check and where it goes, he thought. I could explain that I have no savings. To disclose private affairs is a definite sign of friendship. He surely wouldn't feel bad about that, would he? I do have a responsibility to Jim or helping me gain an education, that’s how I advanced so rapidly.

John remembered also the time when Mary had her first child. It helped foot the bills because John had been delinquent and had allowed his hospitalization to lapse. There was also the time when John had bought his first furniture; Jim was very prosperous men and had advanced him two hundred dollars without question.

Yes, Jim had helped him in the past, but how was John to explain his situation and still keep face before the community and his brother.

And then there was Mary; she had been kept in the dark about the loans, he felt this was a personal affair between him and Jim. Many were the times at college when John had used up his funds and Jim contributed generously to his brother’s welfare. He did owe him a lot but five thousand dollars was so much money.

We re both in the same boat, thought John; our expense is more than our income. How can I tell Jim that all these things belong to the loan company?

John emerged from the kitchen with the glasses, "Sorry it took so long but I had to put more on ice.”

Jim sat uneasily crossing one leg then the other. He crushed his cigarette in the ash tray on the table, "That’s ok, John. Hardly missed you. Jim stood up and walked to the other side of the room.

"Jim, about that loan you wanted.”

"Yes?” "Well, that’s a lot of money and ..

Oh, forget it, John. I shouldn’t have come to you for the money.”

Hold on, Jim, don’t get sore, but you know how it is. Tell you what. I’ll let you know in a day or two. Alright?”

"Sure, John, sure. Well, it’s getting late; better be going.”

Oh, come sit down. You haven’t had one sip from your glass.”

No, I d better leave. Donna will be expecting me home.”

"Ok, sure nice of you to drop around. I’ll let you know in a couple of days. By the way what’s your new number?”

"It’s Fairview 3-3303. Thanks, John, for the drink. ’Bye now.”

Fifty-two

Jim left hurriedly and John went to the desk and wrote "Call FA 3-3303 in a day or two.” He noticed the date was Thursday, October 7. That meant two days to come up with something, he thought as he heard his wife enter.

She leaned forward and kissed him on the forehead.

"Jim was here a little while ago, Mary.”

"Jim? What on earth did he want? Poor fellow struggling along with that grocery; it’s more than I could take. It’s a wonder he hasn’t run out of funds by now.”

"He looked at the house and liked it very much. They have a place of their own now, the old Newman house.”

"Oh. I’m glad for them; pretty run down, though, isn’t it?”

"I guess so; haven’t seen it lately.”

"Come, John, let’s go to bed. I’m tired and you look as if you could get some shut-eye yourself.”

"Yes, I am a little tired at that. Lots of things on my mind; been a busy day today.”

"Check the children before you turn out the light, Mary.”

"Ok, John. Night.”

The next morning John awoke early only to find that Mary had been up for an hour. "Good morning, Mary. What on earth you doing out of bed this early? It’s only six o’clock.”

"Oh, I couldn’t sleep so I thought I’d get up and fix your break­ fast.”

"I’m not too hungry, Mary.”

"Come now. I’ve fixed cereal and eggs for you. You wouldn’t want me to waste them would you?”

"You’ve got a point there.”

"The sun is bright this morning; looks as though we’re going to have a nice day.”

"I want to stop at the office and then get into the bank. I’ve some important business this morning.”

"Slow down, where’s the fire? The bank doesn’t open until nine o’clock and it only takes an hour to drive.” said Mary.

John hurriedly finished his breakfast and started for Danville Heights. He arrived at the bank about opening time. He was the first one to enter. "May I see Mr. Harner, please?” he asked.

"Sorry, sir, Mr. Harner has not come in yet this morning.”

"I’ll wait, thank you.” John replied.

"Take a seat, please. I’ll call you when Mr. Harner arrives.”

John sat rigidly in his chair his feet tap tap tapping the marble floor. He twiddled his thumbs and repeatedly glanced at his watch.

Presently a slender good-looking middle aged man entered the bank.

"Good morning, Mr. Harner.” John said as he hurried forward.

"Good morning, John. What can I do for you this morning?”

"I’d like a word with you, privately, sir.”

"Certainly, John, come along.”

As the two walked into the inner office, John felt as though some­ one had stuffed cotton in his mouth. "What will it be, John?”

Fifty-three

Id like to borrow an additional five thousand dollars, sir!”

Five thousand dollars? What on earth for?”

Tor an unexpected expense, sir. An investment!”

"What have you to put up for collateral?”

John was stumped here, everything he had was mortgaged. "How about borrowing on my house?”

Well now, have you any other commitments at the present?”

John blushed and named a few.

"I’ll let you know by Samrday, John.”

"Sir, I’ve got to have it!”

"What’s this? What’s bothering you, John?”

Nothing, nothing, sir.” John could not possibly have made him understand the reason he needed the money. "I’ll wait for your call Saturday then. Good bye, sir.”

"Good day, John.”

As he left the bank he was not without hope. He unconsciously noticed the Johnson’s Realty Company across the street. He shrank at the thought of selling his house.

John nosed the car out into the westbound traffic. It was about noon when John reached his residence on Pleasant Hill. He parked the car in front and walked slowly to the door. He opened it and stepped in quietly. He didn’t notice his wife standing in the den.

"John! You’re home early. Anything wrong?”

"No, dear. Just a little tired.”

Why don’t you lie down while I get some dinner. You did promise to take me shopping today. You haven’t forgotten?”

"No, dear.”

I ve got the new furniture all picked out for the recreation room.”

"Oh, do you think we should get it right now?”

"Why not, John? You said we could get it the first of the month.”

"Let’s wait a few days, huh, Mary?”

Oh, John, it’s just the set I want. It’s that gorgeous plastic tweed with coppertone trim. Oh please? Is there some reason why we can’t get it now?”

"No! No, dear, no reason, only—Oh forget it.”

"I’ll have them deliver it Saturday morning.”

At the mention of the word Saturday John flushed; he knew he had to do something quick. Why was Mary also working against him?

That evening as he retired he thought, why should I give Jim the loan. I’ll just tell him I can’t do it now. He was tired after the day’s events and he was ready for a good night’s sleep but he tossed in his bed like a ship in a storm. He swung his feet over the side of the bed and lit a cigarette. He was still continually haunted by the loan of five thousand dollars. He arose and walked to the window and then back to the bed. He finally dozed off for a short time and awakened with a start. He sat up in bed and listened. He was sure he had heard a voice. Nightmares! Oh, no! He snapped on the light to see what time it was. Three o’clock.

Fifty-four

John Boyd, successful business man, how did you get into such a damn mess, John thought. It’s so easy to buy now and pay later and why in hell did Jim have to come to borrow from me? Just because of my fine house—yes, why—John had fallen asleep with his thoughts.

The alarm jangled incessantly and Mary reached sleepily over and pushed the alarm button. "Time to get up, John!" she said pleasantly.

But John wasn’t in his bed. "John! John! Where are you?”

John appeared at the bedroom door, "Don’t be alarmed, Mary, I’ve just gone to the bathroom. I couldn’t sleep so thought I’d shower and dress.”

"But it’s only six o’clock and it’s Saturday morning.”

"So what! Can’t a guy get up a little early for a change.”

"Don’t be angry, John. Tell me what’s bothering you.”

"Nothing.”

"Yes there is, now—” "For the last time, there’s nothing wrong. I’m just tired.”

"Why can’t you sleep then?”

"Oh, for heaven’s sakes, Mary!”

"Ok, John, I’ll not question you further. I’ll get breakfast. Oh, John, haven’t you forgotten something?”

"What?”

"It’s my birthday!”

"Oh, I’m sorry, dear. Happy birthday.” He kissed her indif­ ferently.

"I’m going shopping today; you promised I could have anything I wanted. Remember?”

"But Mary!”

"No buts; today is my day.”

Breakfast was over and Mary and the children had gone shopping.

John sat in the den working on some papers for the office. Presently the phone rang. John reached anxiously to answer it. "Hello. Yes, speaking.”

"Yes.” "But how. . . .”

Yes, of course. Thank you, Mr. Harner.” John stood a few moments holding the phone. Slowly he placed the receiver on the hook and then sat in his desk chair motionless.

Mr. Harner s final remark was still echoing in John’s ears, "The board has decided against advancing you a loan. I’m sorry but after investigating your financial situation I’d personally advise you against going in any deeper. I m sure you’ll understand. Call me if I can be of any further help.”

John arose slowly from his chair and walked leisurely about the house admiring the beautiful furnishings—from the children’s room to the kitchen and from the living room to the recreation room. He werit to the door and advanced along the large patio. He saw the rolling grass like a broadloom carpet spread before him. He circled Fifty-five

the house and disappeared behind the small door leading to his den.

John sat silently for a moment then his eye caught the glaring reminder, "Call FA 3-3303.” John dialed the number. "Jim?” he said, "This is John . . . I’ll have the money for you in about a week . . . Yes, Jim, and you too.” As he placed the receiver on the hook the door bell rang. It was a delivery boy with a large box.

"Yes?” "Package for Mrs. Boyd, sir.”

John glanced thoughtfully at the fancy gilt lettering which said Diane’s Furriers’. "Take it back, son,” he said, "she won’t be needing it now.”

ALFONSINA STORNI ZULMA NELLY MARTINEZ

Special Student, Cordobe, Argentina The sea was lulled

By Alfonsina, The eternal lover with a seared heart.

Mirth and gaiety Were hushed Momentarily A woman had sought and found The bed eternal.

Her departure was not A lugubrious sight.

She descended the steps of life Majestically.

A lurid sunset it was.

Life’s satiety Drove her tormenting thoughts Into eternal oblivion.

She kissed the waters Tenderly.

And with the passion of a youthful lover Clasped the sea’s arms In hers Pathetically.

Woman, ’The sea’s song is your song.

The sea echoes your name . . .

Is there light in the regions you dwell?

Are your yearnings quenched?

Alfonsina Storni is one of the greatest contemporary Latin American poets. She lived most of her life in Argentina. Her poetry never reached the extraordinary heights of Gabriela Mistral’s for example; hers is a simpier, a more understandable style. Her life was very unhappy. She committed suicide by drowning herself in the sea. Ironically enough, she chose Mar del Plata, one of the best Summer resorts in Argentina where gaiety and merrymaking prevail.

Fifty-six

UNDERSTANDING I’lnii.is

\oiroNi

'60

The small, souvenir bedecked room stood empty and silent. Two bureaus, their tops laden with essential cosmetics, stood against the wall opposite the two high windows. To the right a mound of papers and books covered the desk top and there in the corner sat the corn popper, left unwashed from the night before. The cheery plaid bedspreads and curtains reflected the evening sun which barely light­ ened the shadows of the deserted room.

Presently the room was filled with the sounds of young girls, happily discussing the events of the day and eagerly anticipating the evening ahead of them. The conversation moved gently back and forth. Then it turned to the inevitable topic—their boy friends. The favorable qualities of each of their dates were stated and compared.

"Neil is so considerate!” "Mike is so understanding!

Ed is so even-tempered, always happy and full of fun.”

Occasionally a complaint would arise only to be overcome by his many virtues.

During all these discussions, only one girl remained silent, never voicing either side of her story. She would sit patiently and listen sympathetically to each problem and maybe even venture forth her own timid advice. Mostly, she would be lost far off in her own thoughts. Her pale blue eyes would wander aimlessly around the room and she would run her small hand restlessly through her soft tangle of auburn touched hair.

Finally the buzzer sounded. He was here! Only five minutes late.

Maybe for once he was as eager to see her as she always was to see him. Maybe he would even have a fairly acceptable excuse if he felt the need to offer one. After all, wasn’t she glad to see him?

Excitedly, she snatched up her light jacket and raced to the stairs.

She forced herself to walk slowly and nonchalantly down the steps.

She musn’t let him know how anxious she is.

There he stood at the foot of the stairway, his thin, muscular figure comfortably dressed in light blue casual slacks topped by an ivy league plaid shirt and the dark blue sweater she had helped him select only a few weeks ago. The bright ceiling light shone above his head, mak­ ing his fair hair seem lighter than it really was. He saw her now and turned to watch her come down the stairs. His blue eyes shot an appreciative glance over her dress. It was his favorite, at least he had said once that he liked it. Why wouldn’t he say it again? Why? "Hi,” his deep voice sounded and quivers shot up her spine. 'Are you sure you’ll be warm enough in that jacket?”

She assured him that she would be. If only he would say something nice like all the other fellows did for their dates.

Awkwardly he opened the door for her and they stepped out into the evening air. "Let’s go to the union and get a Coke,” he directed.

He simply said "Let’s go” without asking her opinion or anything.

Just "Let’s go.”

She smiled to herself and walked along beside him. Maybe some­ Fifty-seven

day he would ask her for her thoughts or maybe even say something extra nice, then it would be her turn to report to the girls. Silently, they continued to walk in the direction of the union. He was in "one of those moods” again. It wouldn’t do any good to talk. It never did when he was like that. Why was he so different.’

As they sat over their ginger ale (she hated ginger ale) she watched him as he nervously played with his glass. His eyes looked so cold she almost shivered. If only she knew what made him the way that he was.

Finally he looked up from the ginger ale and caught her looking at him. His face softened and he smiled as he reached across the table and took her hand.

"I like you,” he said earnestly and got up. "Let’s play ping-pong.”

Obediently she followed him to the next room, her hand pressed tightly in his. Maybe he wasn’t quite like all the other guys. Maybe he was unprediaable and hard to understand but yet she knew that he could be depended upon to do anything she really wanted done, anything that really mattered, anyway. If he felt he needed to be superior, she’d let him. Things always seemed to work out for the best anyway.

Tonight when she would be listening to the ceaseless charter of the other girls it would not bother her. Anyhow, she knew what she had.

LOST FOUNDLING VANDWILLA

HACKMAN

'60

His beak was a tiny peaked spire.

Baby robin all wet in the rain Held his head up to keep in life’s fire And shivered to hold out the pain.

I saw him. I held him. I warmed him.

I gave him my home for a day.

When at dawn I decided to free him.

Without thanking he just flew away.

AUTUMN PHYLLIS

VOLPONI

'60

From a cold, damp corner A soft grey spider Slowly Moved out To survey the situation.

Fifty-eight

THE HOSTESS WITH THE MOST PHYLMS

VOLPONI

’60

As the hostess pulled back the velvet rope that closed off the main dining room from the lobby, her nervous brown eyes searched through the almost abandoned waiting room for some possible guests. Her spotless, freshly-pressed aqua uniform clung attractively to her slight figure. She shifted her weight restlessly, and ran her long graceful fingers through her softly waved hair. Her thin, bow-shaped lips parted in a half smile as she watched us peep from the kitchen door.

Three other waitresses and I then came through the door separating the dining room from the warm, bustling kitchen. We surveyed the results of our efforts and were satisfied by the tables which stood immaculate and neat. Before each chair a bright orange place mat lay with the proper setting of silver gleaming upon it. From each of the center tables, the bright yellow mums, accented by the green of fern, marched in two straight rows to the back picture window.

There, from freshly cleaned glass shelves, the glowing, translucent vases of every shape and color caught the morning sun. The cut glass chandeliers tinkled and twinkled as the soft breeze from the air conditioner moved quietly through the room. Everything stood waiting.

Meanwhile Ruth, our hostess, restlessly began to straighten out the menus and we gathered our trays, checkbooks, pencils, and towels and joined her beside the front buffet. There we lined up as were awaiting inspection and quietly began to talk. As we talked, Ruth kept a cautious glance on the kitchen door to watch for the appearance of our manager. If he were suddenly to appear she would send us quickly about to attend to some incidental task.

Finally, the first early diners be^n to venture through the lobby and she calmly and deliberately direaed them to the proper booth or table according to our sharing system. After each party of guests were seated she promptly took water to the table and checked their comfort and saw to any immediate needs, such as baby bottles, bibs, directions or even meal suggestions. This she did while constantly watching the gate for other guests.

From the lobby, the occasional call of a bus driver would interrupt the stillness and a scurry of people would rush through the two large front doors facing the broad, straight turnpike which stretched both east and west. Leaving the confines of their automobile for a much needed rest, people of all types and kinds sat around the benches in the lobby and chatted before returning to the teeming turnpike or venturing into the dining room. Some were weary after a long, tiresome trip, while others were fresh and enthusiastic about beginning a highly anticipated vacation—and for most—a much deserved one.

To each of these Ruth extended a warm greeting as they came through the gate and made them as comfortably at ease as she could.

Patiently, she fussed with the centerpiece of a long table as the father of a large family tried to mentally count noses so that his brood could be comfortably seated. Calmly she kept smiling as the Fifty-nine

"wise guys” made sarcastic remarks as she led them to their table.

Determinedly she spoke with the manager to get the proper equipment necessary to make the work run smoothly for us.

Occasionally, her temper would overcome her and her eyes would darken and her lips tighten. It was then that the rudeness of people seemed almost deliberate. Always some gracious guest would make a kind comment or perhaps a child would smile or do something amusing and her eyes would regain their spark and her warm smile would return, the temper dissolved by her genuine fondness for people, any kind of people.

Later, we would disaiss the burst of temper lightly and laugh at the trivial incident which caused it.

For the most part these people were the same. There were the complainers to be heard and comforted; the gracious to be acknow­ ledged; the curious to be satisfied; and the clock-watchers to be reassured.

To each comment or question Ruth always replied with a kind, patient understanding that overcame many difficulties. One of the sayings around the restaurant was that the service is more important than the food. Whether this is true or not, I cannot say, but I know people were much more pleasant and understanding when Ruth had seen to their comfort.

FIRST DAY LINDA TI.SCHLF.R '62

As I approached the double glass doors of the building, I noticed again the shiny newness of the place. It stretched out over almost an entire city block, a brick structure dating back not more than five years. There was a sign near the entrance which told that the edifice was a regional branch of the Cuyahoga County Public Library.

With suddenly clammy hands I reached for the door handle. I passed through the wide, high doors and walked up to the main desk just inside.

Behind the desk sat a prim-looking woman fastidiously dressed in black. Her graying brunette hair was knotted into a bun at the nape of her neck. A face lined with weariness bent over a pile of books. The very set of her mouth gave evidence to the fact that she rarely smiled.

My face flushed with suppressed excitement, I waited for the woman in black to look up. At last she did, but it was only to glance briefly at me and say in a monotone, "I’ll be with you in a moment.” Back bent the drawn face over the books. Her long-nailed hands expertly riffled through the cards in the book pockets and stuffed them into slots in the desk in front of her.

"Now,” she said laboriously after a while, sliding the pile of books over to a young girl who stood near-by waiting to shelve them, "May I help you?” Her manner was condescending.

I smiled and said in a voice that must have betrayed my inner Sixty

excitement, "Yes, I’d like to see Mrs. Harris, please.”

"Do you have an appointment?” Her eyebrows rose with her voice at the end of the question.

"Not exactly. But she did ask me to stop in and see her.” Oh, dear, that didn’t sound right. "You see,” I hastened to explain, "today is supposed to be my first day of work here. I’m the new page.”

"Oh, I see.” Did she? I wondered. "Just a moment. I’ll see whether Mrs. Harris is in now.”

Still condescendingly, she picked up the receiver of the telephone behind the desk, pressed one of a series of plastic buttons underneath the dial, and reservedly spoke a few words into the instrument. Then she told me that Mrs. Harris would see me in her office.

"With an ever-so-slight increase in my self-confidence, I walked through the open doorway into the reference section of the library.

To my right was a door marked Private. This was Mrs. Harris s office. I’d been inside it only twice—the day I’d come to apply for the job and later when I had received my working papers, taken my phy­ sical examination, and inquired when I started work. I paused before the closed door and knocked. At a warm "Come in”, I entered the small room done in cheerful shades of aqua.

Mrs. Harris, a slight, matronly-looking woman, sat behind the wide desk. With her welcoming smile and a nod to be seated, I slipped gratefully into the chair opposite hers. While she talked, in a voice that rose and fell in cadences like the tinkling of summer rain on a lake, my earlier nervousness began to leave me. My hands, seeking something to do while this nervousness passed, twisted and untwisted themselves in my lap.

Mrs. Harris was a gracious person. She reminded me of the little old lady who is always the heroine of English stories: her conservative grey and blue tea print, her somewhat distinguishing grey hair pulled back into a chignon and fastened neatly with a silver comb, her hands folded complacently before her, her practiced smile, her precise speech, and those direct blue eyes.

She talked to me as one would expect a matronly employer to talk to an avid but obviously brand new employee. And yet there was a certain warmth to her speech, to her entire manner, that I couldn’t help noticing. She hadn’t the aloof reticence of the woman in black.

Here was a woman who would be equally at home in the study (rows of books in gay jackets lined the shelves on the wall behind me and on the opposite wall), in the kitchen (a plate with a Blue Willow design hung decoratively on the wall above the book shelves), and in the garden (on the window sill behind Mrs. Harris sat a flower pot of African violets). Reflections of her good taste were to be found throughout the room. How homey it seemed! The whole atmos­ phere was one of restfulness and comfort.

"And now, Linda,” Mrs. Harris was saying in her musical voice, "I’m going to take you out and introduce you to Mrs. Simon. She will instruct you in your duties this first week. For some time you will be working under her in the main room non-fiction department and Sixty-one

also in the reference department—this smaller room here.” She ges­ tured to the long green room I had passed through in order to reach her office. She led me through the green reference room back to the main desk. There she paused and smiled at me.

"Mrs. Simon,” she said, turning, "this is Linda, our new page. She will be working under you in the reference department for the next few weeks. I’ll leave her here with you now, so that you can show her a little bit about shelving and carding. Good-bye for now, Linda.

With a feeling of finality weighing heavily on my hean, I mrned back to the desk to await orders for my first duties from Mrs. Simon.

Mrs. Harris was gone. I had been left entirely to the mercies of the lady in black. va RETROSPECT

On January 10, 1919, the yellowing records show, a group of students and teachers meeting in "Dr. Sherrick’s Classroom” with Professor C. O. Altman in the chair, decided "by unanimous agreement” to form an organization devoted to furthering an interest in literamre and creative writing on the Otterbein College campus. Helen Bovee, Grace Armentrout, and Elma Lybarger were appointed as a committee to select a name for the new club; Grace Armentrout, Professor Altman, Cleo Coppock, and Lois L. Adams were to frame a constitution; and Helen Bovee, Helen Keller and Dr. Sarah Sherrick were to plan future programs.

Two weeks later, the organization was completed. Grace Armen­ trout was eleaed president; Cleo Coppock, vice president; Lois Adams, secretary, and Elma Lybarger, treasurer. After considering such other names as "The Starlit^,” "Pen Points,” "Pen and Ink,” and "Quill and Query,” the new society voted to be known as the Quiz and Quill Club. A constitution was adopted, and the remainder of the evening was devoted to a program, the chief item of which was a reading by Helen Keller of her short story, "La Petite,” both as first written, then in the form that had recently been accepted for puHication in Holland’s Magazine.

In 1959 the Quiz and Quill Qub looks back to these beginnings of forty years ago and notes not only that it is now the oldest honorary organization on the Otterbein campus but that the interest in creative writing which marked the very first literary program has continued ever since to be the central motivating interest of the Club’s many aaivities.

In May, 1919, the first issue of the Quiz and Quill magazine ap­ peared with Grace Armentrout as editor. The cost of the 104-page book was $169.76, defrayed chiefly from the pockets of dub members and Otterbein faculty.

That first number of Quiz and Quill set a distinguished precedent for its forty years of successors. Helen Bovee had drawn a clever original cover design. President W. G. Clippinger wrote his greet­ ings. Dr. Frank E. Miller, just retiring from the Mathematics Depart­ Sixty-two

ment, contributed the manuscript of an address he had given before the Faculty. There was a Barnes short story, of course. Lois Adams had won first prize with "Meg,” a story of Lincoln and the Civil War. Other contributors included Hma Lybarger, Gladys McClure, M. E. Michael, Charles K. Pulse, Helen Keller, Mildred Deitsch, Dennis D. Brane, Genevieve Mullin, Marjorie Miller, Esther Harley, Cleo Coppock and Pauline Stubbs.

A junior named Gilbert E. Mills was author of a five-page short story in French entitled "Une Fois de Trop,” quite worthy of the future head of Otterbein’s Modern Language Department.

And a freshman, who had already established the habit of writing his name J. Gordon Howard, was represented by an essay on the subjea, "Right Always Wins.”

Through the years, the club has not only kept Quiz and Quill appearing in annual or semi-annual issues but has sponsored many and various literary contests, arranged numerous literary events on the campus, and developed the Quiz and Quill Endowment Fund (now approaching $5,000) the interest from which is used to support pub­ lications, to pay for literary prizes, and to bring visiting authors to the campus. Among the distinguished writers who have been the club’s guests in late years have been Carl Sandburg, Richard Llewellyn, Robert K. Marshall, Ogden Nash, Roy W. Burkhart, Ernest Cady, and Adele and Cateau de Leeuw. This phase of the club’s activities will doubtless expand in future years as the Endowment Fund continues to grow.

The value that has come out of a 40-year service such as Quiz and Quill’s is, actually, impossible to describe. The stimulus toward more and more effeaive expression that comes to dozens of persons year after year merely because an organization sets a worth upon such growth, recognizes a high standard for it and provides for it a printed medium, cannot be measured at all. Yet it is there, working quietly and steadily. Many of Quiz and Quill’s members of the past forty years have attained important literary success as novelists, short story or feature writers, poets, editors, publicists and other professional creators of the written word. Of these we are especially proud. But a much bigger result of this influence exerted by such a group may be found, in the long run, among those many people who have gone out into their life places, perhaps without any particular need to be professional writers, but with quickened powers of per­ sonal expression and keener enjoyment of daily living because of their greater awareness of personal effectiveness in words and their apprecia­ tion of such effeaiveness in others.

Down through the years the inspiration of the first and long-time sponsor. Professor C. O. Altman, has shone bright and far. Professor Altman retired in 1948 and now resides in Costa Mesa, California.

The impetus which his wise guidance gave to Quiz and Quill for so long will be felt for many years to come. To Professor Altman, then, on Quiz and Quill’s fortieth birthday, the Club takes special pleasure in extending its heartiest anniversary greetings.

The Quiz and Quill Club, 1958-1959.

Sixty-three

Table of Contents Mr. Lincoln’s Eyes, John Payton..................................................................... S Top of the Mountain, Rosemary Richardson............ .................................... 3 Moods in Alliteration, Sue Beatty..................................................................... 5 The Gift of Spring, Audrey Springer............................................................. 5 Crusoe at College, Louis William Norris.......... ............................................. 6 Sonnet for Youth, George Stump..................................................................... 7 Grandma’s House, Carl Vorpe........................................................................... 7 Dawn Fire, Carl Vorpe....................................................................................... 8 The Maid, Carl Vorpe.......... ............................................................................. 8 Ah’ra Jest A-Passin’ Through, John Payton....................!!!!............................ 9 Spring Love, Sarah Rose...................................................................................... 18 Wind-Swept, Sarah Rose...................................................................................... 18 The Sea, Zulrna Nelly Martinez....................... ................................................. 19 Darts of Doubt, Beverly Easterday................................................................... 20 Carnival Macabre, Jean Unger Chase............................................................ 20 Song of the Spirit, Duan Roth........................................................................ 21 Seen from Inspiration Point, Linda M. Tischler....................................... ■■ 22 Who of Us Would Stand Erect, Lere Shaffer.......... ....................................... 22 The Dogwood, Blanche Gehres.......................................................................... 23 The Letter, Philip O. Deever............................................................................ 24 From Last Summer, Rolfe Korsborn ... ............................................................ 25 Soft Summer Night, Linda M. Tischler ......................................................... 26 When He Calls, James Nuhfer......................................................................... 26 Specific Gravity, Amelia Caulker ................................................................... 28 Cape Canaveral, Thomas Buckingham........................................................... . 28 On the Work of Men, Dallas Taylor..................... ......................................... 28 A Sierra Leone August, Amelia Caulker.......................................................... 29 ’Twas on the Isle of Capri, Lexv Shaffer.....................

29 The Mambo River, Amelia Caulker.............................................................. 30 Departure, John Soliday .. ................................................................................ 31 A Ma Mere, Paulette Loop .............................................................................. 32 Show Us the Way to the Pond, Francine Thompson................................... 33 Autumn, Cleora Fuller ....................................................................................... 35 Rubaiyat—1959, Cleora Fuller ...........................................

Christmas Now and Then, Philip O. Deever.................................................. 36 Episode, Ethel Shelley Steinmetz........................................................................ 36 The City, J. Gordon Hmeard.............................................. ............................. 37 Fog, Blanche Winifred Gehres.......................................................................... 37 What’s in a Name, Walt Vernon...................................................................... 38 My Two Most Memorable Characters, Alice Sanders Reed......................... 39 Alone on Christmas Eve, Julia Nicholas....................................................... 40 The Cabbage Lady, John Payton.................................................................... 41 A Sick Friend, James Nuhfer............................................................................ 41 William Dean Howells—Interpreter of an Age, Don Storer......................... 42 Rebirth, Sarah Rose .. ...................................................................................... 45 The Gift, Vandwilla Hackman........................................................................ 45 Les Cloches, Paulette Loop................................................................................ 46 Tropical Love Song, Vandwilla Hackman...................................................... 46 Reflection, Duan Roth ...................................................................................... 47 Life, Earl W. Newberg ...................................................................................... 47 To A. B., Pat Speer........................................................................................... 47 The Young Gunman, John Payton................................................................. 48 The Wait, Thomas Buckingham.. ..................................................................... 48 Financial .Security, James Nuhfer ................................................................... 49 Alfonsina Storni, ZAilma Nelly Martinez.......................................................... 56 Understanding. Phyllis Volponi ....................................................................... 57 Lost Foundling, Vandu'iUa Hackman............................................................... 58 Autumn, Phyllis Volponi .................................................................................. 58 The Hostess with the Most, Phyllis Volponi................................................ 59 First Day, Linda M. Tischler.... ........................................................................ 60 Retrospect ............................................................................................................ 62

Sixty-four

35