Quiz and Quill 1960 Spring

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Published by THE QUIZ AND QUILL CLUB of Otterbein College

THE STAFF

Editor-in-Chief............................

. Peg English

Assistant Editor...................... .....

Bev Easterday

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

Earl Newberg

Spring, 1960

Founded 1919

THE QUIZ AND QUILL CLUB - 1959-60

Bev Easterday ’60 Earl Newberg ’60 . . .

Don Storer ’60 . . .

Bruce Flack ’60 Robert Price Cleora Fuller ’53, Mary Thomas ’28 Ethel Steinmetz ’31 Paulette Loop ’60 Lloyd Bailor ’60 Peg English ’61 Carl Kropf ’61 John Coulter John Payton '59 John Soliday ’62 Philip Deever ’34 Janice Schroeder '58 Rita Zimmerman ’61 James Recob ’50 Adelaide Weir ’61 Rosemary Richardson ’61 'Vandwilla Hackman ’60 Dallas Taylor ’62

President Vice-President Secretary'Treasurer Program Chairman Faculty Sponsor Alumni Relations Committee

Honorary Members

Dr. Harold Hancock

Walter Jones

Mrs. Hazel H. Price

Literary Awards Freshman Prose Contest

Honorable Mention

.....

Nancy Staats ’63

Freshman Poetry Contest

Honorable Mention

Gloria Corbett ’63 and Robert Werner ’63 Quiz and Quill Prose Contest

First Prize .......

Adelaide Weir ’61 Second Prize .......

Bev Easterday ’60 Third Prize ......

Rita Zimmerman ’61 Quiz and Quill Poetry Contest

First Prize .......

John Soliday ’62 Second Prize .......

Susan Beatty ’60 Third Prize (tie) . .

Adelaide Weir ’61 and Judith Stewart ’62 Quiz and Quill Humorous Prose Contest

Second Prize......................................................Bev Easterday ’60 Third Prize ......

Carl R. Kropf ’61 Quiz and Quill Humorous Poetry Contest

Third Prize

.......

Lloyd Bailor ’60

Dr. Roy A. Burkhart Poetry Contest

First Prize........................................................... Susan Beatty Second Prize......................................................... John Soliday Third Prize...........................................................Judith Stone

’60 ’62 ’62

Kathleen White Dimke Essay Contest

First Prize...................................................................'Vernon Vogel ’60 Second Prize.................................................................Dallas Taylor ’61 Third Prize................................................................ Adelaide 'Weir ’61 Quiz and Quill Cover Design Contest

First Prize (See Cover)...................................... Sharon Knoff ’63 Second Prize..........................................................Carol Morse ’61 Walter Lowrie Barnes Short Story Contest — 1959

First Prize.....................................................................John Payton ’59

A TRIAL Earl Newberg, '60

At the start of each college semester, the new professors seem to be “on trial” before the critical jury of students. The new psychology professor was no exception. We students had heard that he was different from all other faculty members. Therefore, we were anxiously await­ ing his initial appearance in an Otterbein classroom. Soon a short, stocky, well-dressed man emerged from the office. Lisa, his huge three-year-old German Shepherd, quickly took the initiative by guiding him to the end of the discussion table. He found the chair and slowly sat down. Lisa settled herself on the floor next to the table. The new professor ran his fingers over a strange piece of paper which had raised dots for identifica­ tion of our names. It was the first time that we had heard a class roll called in this unique manner. Although he had a large notebook before him, he presented his first lecture from memory. We nodded approv­ ingly as he continued the lecture with his Southern accent. The jury of students was thus assured that the role of a college professor could be filled adequately by a capable sightless man.

INFINITY John Soliday, ’62

Second Prize, Roy A. Bur\hart Poetry Contest Gleaming globes of mineral Milling, rolling, climbing Through endless spaces Looking down to waiting faces That stare back.

Wondering what and why Globes are mirroring reflections Through sea-like skies to them.

Endless, silent, shadowed spaces Separate the globes.

Man searches.

Moments flying fleeting Faster than flaming forest fires Destroying paths Never traveled again.

Life not lived again, Ending silent As star-seeing souls Drift upward and beyond.

Three

A NIGHT ON DUFFERIN TERRACE Bruce Flack, ’60

I recalled all the stories I had heard about the old'time Saturday night, when the small American town of the early twentieth century would play host to all the people in the community—when everyone, dressed in his finery, would come into the village to enjoy himself after a hard week’s work.

Perhaps, this custom here at Quebec, too, was just a product of the age, and would disappear also, as it had in the United States when society became more refined.

Nevertheless, the spectacle on Dufferin Terrace was highly fascinat' ing. As the last glows of twilight dimmed, more and more people began to wend their way from the city square onto the Terrace. The older people made their way to the benches placed on the edge of the walk.

They sat quietly, oblivious to the passers-by, and watched, as they must have done so many times before, the dark, unchanging St. Lawrence below them. Scattered lights from the suburb, Levis, on the opposite shore, reflected as luminous pools in the river, a hundred feet below the spectators.

The youth especially enjoyed the Terrace, not so much for scenic beauty as for a meeting place with others. The young men, wearing their most brightly colored shirts and the girls their best dresses and white gloves, walked up and down the terrace, randomly stopping to speak to an acquaintance or throw a furtive glance at another.

Soon a crowd began to gather around one of the benches at the ter­ race edge. There, standing on the bench, was a little urchin singing in his soprano voice a version of “Sous les Fonts de Paris.’’ The delighted audience tossed pennies to him, calling for more and more encores.

This was only a mere sampling of the spectacle on Dufferin Terrace.

It was an informal spectacle, lasting to the early morning hours; people entering and leaving as they pleased. One could conclude that at some time, nearly everyone in Quebec City must have been a part of the events at Dufferin Terrace.

THE RETURN Robert Werner

Honorable Mention, Freshman Poetry Gone are the men, of the battle that day.

Gone are the cannons as are their prey.

Gone are the sounds of victory and defeat.

Gone into history, but often to repeat.

Four

THE OLD OAK SPEAKS Alice Sanders Reed, ’26

Reprinted from the Lynchburg (Va.) T^ews May 19, 1959 They came one day in early spring And brought a sharp-toothed buzzing thing; My roots outspread in circling earth Shook hard to hear steel at my girth.

I lay my length along the ground And felt the saw bite off each round; It left my stem a little high.

The cut ringed like a sugar pie: There was my life spread flat and wide, The fat and lean years side by side.

A century, or more or less.

Has left its stamp on me, I guess.

This twig which soon became a tree Has looked on much of history.

About a hundred years ago Small children played here in the snow As they have done in this year, too.

I could name scores of years for you— The years of drouth, the years of rain, The years of gale and ice and strain.

The times of peace, the times of war— You see them written on my core?

There juts the scar by metal made When battle came into this glade.

Among my roots’ most devious space A cannon-ball has made a place; It did not reach to flesh and bone But buried deep in this soft loam.

Some others struck their target well— I saw men bleeding as they fell.

But still the thought comes back to me How good to be an ancient tree!

I need not turn my head to see For compass points stand still in me.

I’m look-out post for birds’ clear song, I stretch cool shade when days are long.

I’m rich in store of winter’s food.

My acorns shower the autumn wood.

My leathern leaves last well till spring Sheltering many a woodland thing.

The fountain-spread of my design Has always seemed (to me) quite fine— The twigs like slender finger-tips Reach out to touch a low cloud’s lips.

The stems of every springing branch A ballet in a wind-harp dance.

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The main shaft of my central span Stands shoulder-width and more to man; Does not my top against the sky Give satisfaction to the eye?

Ten times ten years, skies clear or dim, I’ve looked out to the Blue Ridge rim; I knew this land in younger days And watched it grow in many ways.

I’ve seen a city build and change— I too had more leaves to arrange.

Then came more men to house and keep Than those gone by who fell on sleep; The word went out: “We need more room’’ And with those words I knew my doom.

So now I lie on cool spring earth Remembering my acorn birth; Around me cluster young oak sprouts.

Some to survive, I cannot doubt.

A hundred years will make a tree Of goodly size—about like me.

My buzz-saw death this twilit spring Is not a final, fruitless thing For I shall rise up in my seed— Where they are scattered, there I’ll breed.

Why this shudder, this long sigh?

Should death be met with such outcry?

When you have lived as long as I It’s not a pleasant thing to die.

TIME TO REST John Soliday, ’62

You creep slowly along the sandy shore.

Face down, your belly rubbing in the ground.

Heart throbbing, fear gnawing into your core.

Waiting for the final, the piercing sound.

Above, a bomber hovers, engines roar.

Silence . . . hope gripping, you wait to be found.

Stamped on metal at your neck is your name.

It is a number—cold against your chest.

Hundreds of names, but one igit the same.

The gun slips from your hand, breath from your chest.

Mist starts falling, cold on your face, like rain.

Someone kneels beside you, a thud—a scream. rest .

Six

HARK! THE GAS MAN COMETH Carl R. Kropf, ’61

Third Prize—^uiz and ^uill Humorous Prose One of the phenomena of the American world which never ceases to amaze me is the gas station attendant. This socially frowned upon but necessary creature ranges from the extreme extrovert to the opposite.

When I am optimistically waiting for a tank of gas, there is nothing as mood shattering as the introvert type. Mr. Introvert usually swaggers out of the station regarding my car and me in an uninhibitedly cynical attitude. At this point I begin to lose sight of my faith in the human race.

I watch in the rearwiew mirror as he pulls his collar up a little further, shoves his pants down a little further, and runs a comb through his greasy duck tails. By the time the gas is in the car and the whole ceremony is over I am more than happy to make a hasty and ungraceful exit. As I leave, a sign tells me that this is where I can get quick, friendly service with a smile.

Mr. Extrovert is no better. He is the one who leans through my win' dow and relates the poignant story of his last operation.

Both of these gentlemen have their professional courtesies which they perform with agility and precision. Notice the gallant pose of the attend' ant as he checks the crankcase level and drips oil over the new wax job.

Observe the urbanity of the gentleman who handles the gas hose as he inflicts sundry contusions and abrasions around the gas cap. Witness how amiably he asks you to pay for that fifty cents’ worth of gas he spilled onto the ground.

I look forward to the times when I can have my oil changed, for dut' ing this operation one can see the real artist at work. The first step is the removal of the oil plug. This deed is always performed with a wrench slightly too large. The fruits of such a shrewd move are bloody knuckles and various smashed fingers. As a more indirect result the mechanic usually questions the paternity of the plug or wrench, or both if he’s had a particularly good day. The oil is then drained into a leaky barrel or a clogged drain. Despite the resulting slippery mess, my friend the attendant usually manages to grease all four springs with his empty grease gun. The plug is then replaced and he leans over the fender to administer the lubricant. Inevitably he is moved at this point to express his artistic ability by applying his belt buckle to my paint job. I always admire the consequential scratches as a small but intrinsic part of the aesthetic ex' pression of our great age. If the car, however, is in a temperamental mood that day, he may retaliate by slamming the hood. Such action often proves inimical to the health of the gentleman, and he may feel the need to make some suggestions as to the car’s afterlife.

I am always sorry to hear that my car is once more ready for use, but I am happy to pay the nominal fee for such fine entertainment. I drive away from these exhilarating experiences with a renewed appreciat' ion of the age of modem conveniences.

Seven

THE TOWER Susan Beatty, ’60

Ivy, Ivy, Ever climbing.

Round, And round.

Forever twining.

Pointing Up To stars a-shining.

Do you Know What you’re enshrining?

Old And old Tradition keeping.

Lives And loves That now are sleeping.

Hours Of joy, A little weeping.

Housed Within Your steady creeping.

Green And greener Leaves unfolding.

Like The mem’ries You are holding.

Sturdy Structures You are molding— All The while We are beholding.

Taller, Taller, Keep on growing.

Inter' Woven Mat of knowing.

Stars Above On you are glowing, Greenest Ivy, Keep on growing!

Eight

By Kathy Krumhansl

CONTEMPLATION ON PEOPLE Phyllis Fraley, ’63

People in life Are like mice in a maze: They grope And stumble around Until they finally find A straight path Out of it!

IN LATE DECEMBER Bruce Flack, '60

Christmas comes but once a year!

I rather doubt that the man who penned that slogan, wise as he may have been, really knew the significance of what he was saying.

Granted, this is the one time of year to really express the spirit of Christmas. Yet, certain problems, trivial as they may be, often arise, and dampen this true spirit of Christmas.

Observe my problem.

Now if I were to classify this in comparison with the multitudinous problems facing mankind, my problem would be on the same level as those questions which often confront us, such as who’s going to wash the dishes, or in the Yule season who’s going to take down the Christmas tree.

My problem is one which is especially related to the male animal.

I believe all men, to some extent, have the same difiiculty as I. Basically the problem boils down to this—how to manipulate the hands and fingers as efficiently as possible.

Now I don’t claim to be ambidextrous, and I certainly don’t rank myself with Houdini. Yet, in all fairness to myself, I think I can control the movement of a basketball or baseball as well as, or better than, the average fellow; I type with a reasonable alacrity; and for quite a few years I have, more or less, successfully dressed myself each morning But when it comes to cutting a piece of wrapping-paper, folding it in the proper proportions, securing the ends with tape or mucilage, putting a touch of ribbon in the appropriate places, and adding that little finish­ ing curl to the ribbon, which the female does so well, something inex­ plicable happens.

Sure, I reason, it’s only a step-by-step process, and with a little study should be easily accomplished. But I have never found the proper com­ bination.

Thus, each year in late December, after several forced, but unsuccess­ ful efforts, I am left with one recourse; aid from the female. So I make my annual plea, “Hey Sis, how about doing me a big favor, and wrapping my Christmas presents? Thanks.’’

BEATITUDE Sylvia Vance, ’47

By many ways we come to an autumn morning Burnished and gilded—and more—in a word, golden.

When restless feet have slowed through the rustle of leaves.

And the hollow man has stilled the hollow drum.

Whatever search has left us still impoverished.

From whatever desolations we have wandered.

Illumined now by the gold of an autumn morning Thus to be filled makes it good to have hungered.

Ten

NEVER-NEVER LAND Carl Kropf, ’61

As smoke ascends from my pipe stem, And water drips from the tap, I sit down to work on paper.

Become bored, and droop in a nap.

I dream of a far-away island With no researches to make.

Folks there haven’t heard of Bill Shakespeare— Life’s just one long coffee break.

My roommate comes in and wakes me.

I glance at my wrist watch and smile.

This paper is due tomorrow.

But I think I’ll just sleep for a while.

OF THE MODEST MclNTOSH Vernon Vogel, ’60

The uncomely McIntosh is often shunned at the market place when competing with the Red Delicious and other apples more appealing to the eye. The McIntosh is dumpy, subdued in color, and unattract­ ive. This apple is not for display, but it has some rare eating qualities.

It is delightful to munch on or to cut up raw for the dinner table.

This homely apple was first discovered on British soil. John McIntosh, a loyalist during the American Revolution, left the town of Schenectady, New York, to resettle as a British subject in the frontier country of Ontario, Canada. John discovered a grove of young apple trees while clearing a tract of forest land in 1796. He transplanted these near his cabin. One of the small trees lived to bear fruit of an exceptional flavor.

Allen McIntosh, son of the frontiersman, spread the species by grafting from the original tree to the roots of other common species. Within a few years the McIntosh was firmly established throughout the Northeast, particularly in New York. It quickly won the American fancy. This “Tory Apple’’ grew into a tough shrub-type apple tree—a rugged symbol of the Yankee will to live.

The McIntosh season is from early October to late January. It is one of the few varieties that retains its raw flavor well throughout the winter, and it is, therefore, particularly useful for salads and fruit cups.

The McIntosh is firm and juicy, has plenty of flavor, and requires only a short time to cook. When in season it should be on the table at least one meal a day. We would do well to take the advice of the Romans by ending our meals with apples—ab ova usque ad mala (from the eggs to the apples). If the McIntosh is chosen this advice will bring pure pleasure.

Eleven

Of course the Romans were narrow-minded, old-fashioned, and lack­ ing in the knowledge of modern cookery. We now use apples during the meal as well as for dessert. Many are good for apple pies, apple dumplings, and apple compotes. The McIntosh is the apple for apple slump, apple float, apple Indian, apple crunch, apple butter, brown Betty, and old-fashioned apple pan dowdy. Each of these delicious dishes is a meal in itself.

Today, in the American home, the salad is a necessity for a wellbalanced diet. It must have a crisp apple such as the tender-skinned McIntosh, which should never be peeled when used in a salad. This ap­ ple is excellent in a variety of some twenty-five salads from the tuna fish, celery, and apple combination to the apple and cucumber favorite. The apple, orange, and Bermuda onion salad is also extremely popular in the better parts of the country.

When we condemn the Romans, we become pedantic fools. The wisdom of the Romans haunts us, particularly when we study scientific­ ally the composition of the apple. Today, society seldom permits an unpeeled apple on the dinner table. This was not so in the time of the Romans! By an unknown source of wisdom or perhaps a revelation from a Greek muse, the Romans knew the value of the raw apple. Rich in vitamin C, it contains more vitamins and minerals in the skin than in the flesh. To obtain the greatest energy from the apple, one should eat it raw and unpeeled. According to the traditional sources, the Romans ate apples daily. I can not help thinking that by the time Julius Caesar invaded Britain in 55 B.C. the Romans must have worn out the Old English proverb, “An apple a day keeps the doctor away.”

Long periods of storage also tend to reduce the amount of vitamin C in apples. Therefore, we should eat our raw Mclntoshes soon after they are harvested. But I realize that we shall have to store a reasonable quantity of apples in order to have an ample amount on the table through­ out the remainder of the winter.

Other healthful reasons given for eating apples are: First, the carbo­ hydrate content of the apple is only fifteen per cent of the whole and is in the form of easily digested fruit sugar. Eat apples—do not be afraid of excess calories or indigestion! Second, the firm, crisp texture of raw apples provides exercise for the teeth and gums and does not wear the enameled choppers as would the same quantity of “rock” candy.

Even the unripe McIntosh is desirable for consumption. Though still not ripe enough to be at its best, it has been rated good raw, excellent baked, and superior for sauce. You will be disappointed if you attempt to use any other unripe apple in more than one of these ways.

Unripe or ripe, the most delicious pink applesauce in the world is made from the McIntosh. One should cut the apple into small pieces.

Unpeeled and uncored, boil quickly with almost no water, strain, and sweeten if need be. The reward is a good hard sauce. Do not attempt to use this sauce as apple butter because it will not spread easily as other, inferior sauces do. It will sever the tender bread into unmanageable and inconvenient pieces as the sauce collects in disconcerting lumps.

Twelve

Among other peculiar uses, the apple may be used to comfort the lovesick male college student. Oh, if only the disgruntled youth would remember this famous Biblical passage his troubles would be over: “Re­ fresh me with apples for I am sick with love” (Song of Solomon 2:5').

A bag of firm, juicy Mclntoshes in every student's room could easily relieve his heart by transferring his attention from the heart to the stom­ ach. After all, the stomach of the average college male is more important to him than his heart. How much better off the Trojans would have been if Paris had eaten the golden apple rather than giving it to Aphro­ dite. Of course, Paris’ apple could not have been a McIntosh since the “Apple of Discord” was golden, probably a Golden Delicious!

By far the best use of the McIntosh is to cure hunger pangs which occur frequently while studying. I love to sprawl out on my bed with an open volume of Sandburg and munch on a McIntosh. Only two con­ ditions are necessary. First, I must move the waste basket within range so as to make an unobstructed shot possible when I dispose of the apple core. Second, a bag of McIntosh should be under the bed so that my concentration will not be lost when I desire a second, or a third.

Before you choose an apple the next time you stop at the country fruit stand, remember the several fine qualities of the McIntosh which make it the best apple to take home. First, the variety of uses is unlim­ ited. Second, Mclntoshes make “between-meal” snacks pleasure, not habit. Be fastidious! Do not accept just any apple. Remember the old Polish proverb, “Worms eat even a sour apple.” lOVE IS . . .

Sarah Ro.se Skaates, '56

Spring scent of lilacs soft blown by the nightwind.

Silver shot moonbeams that dance through the trees.

The low loving laughter that two alone share.

And . . .

“I don’t think you’re one bit funny! You know I can’t stand having my feet tickled, and now I’ve got a runner in my new hose.”

One small china cat bought for love of the other.

One spot by the river two hearts claim as home.

One song at its singing belongs to two only.

And . . .

“Darling, please turn the hi-fi down just a little.

I know you like the Kingston Trio, but maybe not everyone else on the block does.”

A dream of a future where two hearts are sharing, The hopes and the promises made and believed, A kiss for a seal of devotion forever.

And . . .

“Of course I love you. Dear, and I’ll kiss you in a minute. Now please don’t distract me; can’t you see I’m writing a poem about love?”

Thirteen

SELECTIONS FROM HOLIDAY SONNETS George Stump, ’59 Vacation Holiday

AUGUST:

Vacation is the oddest kind of thing.

It seems that we can scarcely wait to start, We feel the greatest urge to have our fling; From busy cares of work we must depart!

We fiercely try to hold these precious days But find it quite an art to make this goal.

So fast the hours flee, in many ways— Time’s pace no man is able to control.

We know we never find the longed-for rest.

Thus, we return in a more wretched state; Relaxing in such times as these is jest.

Instead of healing, we degenerate.

And yet, we find that much to our delight.

We are quite ready to renew life’s fight.

SEPTEMBER:

Sonne; for the Laborers

Not all, but many men who labor now.

Work not for pride in job that is well done.

Nor joy in effort which brings sweat to brow.

Where are the men who worked from dawn to sun?

It seems attempts are greatest to avoid The tasks to which we find ourselves assigned; It is with self that we should be annoyed Because to idleness we are inclined.

It is the attitude which makes one sad.

The way we look toward monetary gain As if it were the only hope we had.

As if the only goal we could attain.

Rise up, oh men, and make your future great!

Have pride, work firm, and do not dissipate!

OCTOBER:

Spooks!

The spooky owls are hooting their strange cry; The wind is whistling weirdly down the road; Mysterious figures race across the sky; Shrill laughter echoes from some dark abode!

Gay Jack o’ Lantern glows his frightening smile; The old black graveyard murmurs with odd sound; Black night is bleak and strangely mystic now; The supernatural things are all around.

He shivers fearfully inside his cloak.

The boy who hides himself so all alone.

A form he sees behind the twisted oak; He feels quite sure he heard a dead man moan!

When young, the false and mystic things seem truth.

And so cause Halloween’s weird thoughts in youth.

Fourteen

Sonnet of Holiday Sonnets

The seasons come and seasons quickly go; It seems before we start, our life is done.

We never shall fulfill our dreams, we know; And many valued goals will not be won.

The holidays bring thought of mingled care Of present days and ones now gone away; In them we see our times of dark and fair; We see the life in March, the hope in May. My “holidays” were happy ones I feel.

Although quite true that some denoted sorrow; Perhaps some sonnets brought old fire and zeal.

Or some gave thoughts to think about tomorrow.

I feel in thought my sonnets have been true.

The final value now remains in you.

AN UNFORGETTABLE CUSTOMER Bev Easterday, ’60

Second Prize, ^uiz and ^uill Prose The rain came down in gray misty sheets that blended with the steam rising from the hot pavements. Inside the department store where I was working the air was heavy and stifling. Intermittently the distraught maintenance director, Mr. Gibbons, hurried by my counter wiping his sweating brow and mumbling something about faulty air conditioning.

A few customers wandered about indifferently pawing at counters of merchandise. I absent'mindedly checked the stock drawers in my hat department, pausing now and then to brush my limp hair from my damp forehead.

Suddenly a domineering voice commanded, “You’re the salesgirl, aren’t you?” I swirled around to see a petite woman tastefully dressed all in light blue. Her small feet, shod in extremely high heels, were im­ patiently tapping in perfect rhythm with the monotonous click of the nearby escalator.

“I would like to see a black hat,” she explained curtly. I immediately composed myself and directed her to the section where I had my variety of black hats on display.

She swiftly drew off dirty blue gloves and revealed ill-kept, diamondstudded fingers. The bright lights over the mirrors sparked the glow of her large rings and sent rainbow reflections flying everywhere. After carelessly dropping her expensive-looking bag on the crown of a hat, she caught up a small velvet creation and set it on top of her brassy-blond head.

I held my breath, cautiously extracted the mashed hat from under her purse, and slipped it into a nearby drawer. I then looked up to see my customer delightedly adjusting a small velvet beret and actually smil­ ing at herself in the mirror.

“It looks very nice on you,” I offered. “That style is the thing this fall.”

Fifteen

She gave me a blank look and picked up another velvet design. This one seemed to impress her as she again viewed it from every side, smiling sweetly all the while.

“Fd take this one if it weren’t damaged,” she said. She pointed to a black raveling hanging rakishly down the side of her head. “Someone must have caught the lining on something. You should watch your merchandise more carefully. Some people are so careless.”

I thought of the crushed hat in the drawer and mentally agreed with her as I helped her to find another style.

My customer pensively adjusted it and then proceeded to try on several other hats in a variety of fashions and materials. I stood by, commenting now and then and absently noting the make-up stain around her collar and the wisps of hair escaping from her French roll.

“I simply must have something chic for Friday,” she droned on. “You know how important it is to look ultra-high style at all times.”

I agreed with her again and went to the stock room for more “chic” hats. Judging from her rings, I hurriedly chose my most expensive mod­ els. This would be a sale to remember!

Upon my return I was chagrined to see my “unforgettable sale” pre­ paring to walk out the door. “FlI come back later, sweetie,” she called.

“It’s stopped raining now.”

I stood still for a moment, my arms full of hat boxes. Suddenly I be­ came aware of a trickle of sweat running down the side of my face and I once again noticed the dead, heavy heat of the store. As the door closed behind my “little lady” a whish of cool, refreshing air caused a few gentle flutters in the feathered-hat section.

I opened the drawer and ruefully regarded the squashed hat. “Oh well,” I sighed, “it may not have been an unforgettable sale, but she cer­ tainly was an unforgettable customer.”

CONTENTMENT Kaye Koontz, ’62

The soft gray kitten lies purring on my lap As my thoughts go wandering.

He lies there so peacefully, His throaty rumble a pleasant drone in my ear.

I wonder what he’s dreaming about?

Does he see his favorite field Amply stocked by Providence with mice?

Does he chase huge, bounding rats And catch them, my little kitten?

Does he merely arch his tiny back And teach respect to rude, stray dogs?

Does he envision bowls and bowls of Pure, rich cream, my little kitten?

He stretches now, and yawns, His tiny teeth encircling his little pink tongue.

Gracefully he leaps from my lap And pads away on velvety paws.

My little kitten.

Sixteen

OLD SAUM Philip O. Deever, ’34

Almost seventy'five years ago now, a pretty girl of sixteen named Myrtle Miller come from the hills of southeast Ohio to seek an educa­ tion in the academy and college located here in the quiet, peaceful village of Westerville. In those days of few high schools, the academy provided an opportunity for worthy young people to make the necessary prepara­ tion for their college careers. So it came about that in the late 1880’s, Myrtle Miller was entrusted by her anxious parents to the supervision of Otterbein, the watchful eye of her older brother, Frank, who was already here, and, of course, to the “comforts” and “conveniences” of Saum Hall.

Today my ninety-year-old mother-in-law. Myrtle Miller Stoner, still delights us occasionally with her recollections of college life as it was back in the good old days.

One of the customs of those yesteryears, watched over with motherly interest and care by old Saum Hall, was the “point system” then in vogue.

Whatever bearing it ever had upon what we call “point average” today was only incidental. The only connection I can see is that having what they called a “point” then might have had a bad effect on what we call our “point average” now. For in those days having a “point” meant going steady for the semester. It seems that students then arranged to go steady with the girl or boy of their choice with the tacit understanding that such arrangements were subject to cancellation or renewal at the end of the semester—much as one might pay off or renew a ninety-day note!

That was an ingenious svstem! It was like having your cake and eating it, too. It was a way of combining adventure and security in things amorous, a kind of locking yourself up in the vault of love in the knowl­ edge that it was controlled by a reliable timing device.

One could, of course, eventually forget to set the clock on the door, as Myrtle Miller and Walter Stoner did, whose “point” was finally in­ terrupted only by death more than fifty years later. Perhaps Saum Hall, already experienced as it must have been in the management of such affairs, had something to do with the perseverance of that “point.” If so, I owe an enormous unpayable personal debt to that beneficient building.

Last Thanksgiving Day, Mamma added a new tale to her recollec­ tions of her student years. She lived in Saum Hall at a time when, ac­ cording to chronology, that sturdy monument to the changing scene was quite a modern building, though according to our standards it was defi­ nitely not modern at all. Both judging by its furnishings—or lack of them—and by the rules applied to the students within its walls, Saum Hall in those days was a very old-fashioned lady indeed.

Nine o’clock in the evening then was not the deadline for getting into the building, but for getting into bed. Lamps out began at 9:00 p.m., which, even among students reared on the philosophy of “early to bed, early to rise,” may have seemed a bit inhibiting at times.

In any case. Mamma, who now shuffles cautiously about with the aid of a walker, one night went tripping down the third floor hall in the dark after nine o’clock against the rules to visit her friend in another

Seventeen

room a few doors away. All would have been well, perhaps, except that in the pitch-blackness her foot struck against a piece of coal lying obscurely in the middle of the floor. As the coal went clattering down the hall, loudly advertising the presence of a disobedient student in the building. Myrtle Miller, too far on her way to return to her own room, rushed for the room of her friend. There, fully clothed, she snuggled into bed with her friend, stifling their giggles with the covers, guiltily waiting to see if the “Lady Principal” would come and discover their complicity in the crime.

As luck would have it, nothing ever came of the incident. Mamma didn’t say whether she spent the rest of the night there or eventually stole back into her own room to bed. But I noticed that seventy-odd years had seemed considerably to have dulled the edge of her sense of guilt in the matter.

The coal, of course, had tumbled from the shuttle of the boy whose duty it was every day to provide fuel for the stoves which then heated individual student rooms. I can still see Mamma’s almost instinctive shiver as she recalled getting up on a winter morning to start a fire in the little black pot-bellied stove with which she was responsible for pro­ viding the heat for her own room.

“Wasn’t it awfully cold in the bathroom, too, on mornings like that?” someone asked Mamma.

“What bathroom?” she demanded with a twinkle in her ninety-yearold Otterbein eyes.

I think Mamma got some of that twinkle from Old Saum Hall. Her eyes, too, I am sure, always twinkled. In fact, I think they twinkle still.

A SONG OF THIS AND THAT Rolfe Korsborn, ’56

I.

Orpheus brought the world quite round with his singing, Caused the stones and trees to weep.

But did they whimper muted counterpoint Or did the singer weave them with his voice.

Note by note until the song he sang became The measured anthem of the wood in which he sat?

The tree and the stone give shade, not gloom.

They have their setting beyond the proscenium.

Orpheus sat in the midst of the wood And the wood raged round its animal sound.

Sang in his ear its animal song.

Song of conflict and violence of blood.

Like the insane mumbling of a severed tongue.

II.

Eighteen

One star, one cloud Clear span of evening.

The wind-wheel is turning And turning in the mechanical air.

MILK OF HUMAN KINDNESS Rita Zimmerman, ’61

Third Prize, ^uiz and ^uill Prose “Is everyone here? Bill, lock the door . . . This semester we have a lot of material to cover in here. Therefore, we can’t afford to fool around —any of us! I shall expect each one of you to pay attention to what we will be doing in lab; I am not going to tolerate any half'way business.

What you put in the course is exactly what you will get out of it. Do I make myself clear?

“This stuff is not easy. It takes concentration, time and day-by-day preparation. You will need to spend two hours’ homework for each class hour. If you really expect to pass the course, you must decide now to sacrifice all other things to work your head off for this.

“I expect each one of you to be in his seat at 1 ;05 and no later! We will lock the door at that time and begin. If you are late, that's your own tough luck. I will not tolerate any whispering during class, either. Are there any questions?’’

The room was silent—deadly silent. No one would dare turn his head to look around. This small-framed man, his head barely peeping above the level of our desk lights, held us spellbound for almost ten min­ utes—frightening us, discouraging us and warning us. We knew at once that he had once been a military man and still had a passion for drill and precision and suppression of individual liberties. His fierce voice was almost hypnotic. We all felt that we would like to tell him just once that there were better methods by which to compensate for small stature than by projecting such a piercing voice.

His steady gaze was as penetrating as his voice. Luckily, his thicklensed glasses diffused some of the light rays, softening some of the austere expressions which made us freeze inside. As he continued to emphasize one point after another, his red bow tie hobbled as the muscles of his neck twitched with each voice change. His head, cocked at an angle, jerked from side to side and forward like a strutting peacock. Always in gesture, his small hands moved simultaneously with his head. His egg-shaped head with small sprigs of gray-tinged hair sticking upward was the perfect final touch for a caricature of the man.

In sotto voce we often caught ourselves mumbling, “O Captain, My Captain.’’ Any order meant “jump to the guns.’’ When trouble was in the air, our hearts beat faster, our respiration took a jump and our muscles tightened. After the first class session with the new professor, student opinion was already circulating with this tone of voice, “He hasn’t a heart; he’s mean and must have some ax to grind. Just what does he think the Freshmen are?’’ From the first day he had built a solid wall between himself and the class.

Unknowingly, I had become one of his pet students. This was one time in my life I was extremely elated to discover the fact. He approached me one hectic day, and with a gleam in his eye he addressed me, “Keep up the good work. You are one of the few who are maintaining good grades on the quizzes. And I feel that you are actually taking an inter­ est in the course. If you are willing to work, then I am willing to help.

Nineteen

As for some of the other members of the class—well, they might as well not be wasting their time and my time in this class! He continued to have me recite frequently, he hovered about my desk always on call to answer my questions. His eyes brightened as I met the challenges. If I failed, the look of disappointment would become unbearable.

One day, however, I witnessed a completely different aspect of his character while I was taking a make-up test in his office. His concern for my learning became ever more apparent throughout this trying ordeal. As always, I felt like keeping a reasonable distance from him, but today I had no choice. “Are you ready for the test? Please come into the storeroom and we’ll look at these slides. What is this? My mind went blank, but I knew I had seen it before. Fortunately, he con­ tinued, “Well, that is just a trial. Let’s begin with this one.’’ He had sensed that I was already emotionally upset, so he smiled pleasantly at me and commented, “Just relax and take it easy. We have all the time in the world.’’ I fumbled through the series of slides, but he expressed neither approval nor disapproval of my efforts.

Next, he asked me to identify twenty-five animal specimens. I at­ tempted the ones I knew and then I asked, “Can we come back to those I don’t know?’’

“Sure, sure, we have plenty of time. You think about those for a while.’’

In the remaining few minutes I felt the pressure and began to think aloud, “Let’s see, it’s either Chiropoda or Molusca.”

“Now you know better than to label it Chiropoda. What’s your other choice?’’

“Molusca.’’

“Okay, now. You’ve got that right.’’ I was really shocked! He was actually prompting me to give the correct answer. This humane charac­ teristic of his, so rarely evident, came out several other times in the ques­ tioning.

I was now conquering the final and most difficult part of the test— the written examination. Before he left me, he lectured, “Do your best and fill in as many blanks as you possibly can. I shall check up on you in half an hour.”

Although I had studied long hours for the test in the past few days, I felt my mind going blank again. The more I sat there trying to form­ ulate my answers, the more tense and discouraged I became. Disheart­ ened, I proceeded to fill in the part of the comparative chart that I knew.

I heard the door squeak behind me. My heart pounded harder as I heard the professor come closer to me to examine my work. And then— the steady flow of inflicting words came piercing to my ears, “Now, you know better than this. Think back to what we worked on in lab Thurs­ day . . . Surely you know the answer to this . . . Are you sure of these green bodies? Now, you can’t tell me that this is an advanced digestive system . . .!”

Twenty

He quizzed me solidly for thirty minutes. Each question was delib­ erately plotted to make me realize my mistake. I erased half of the chart and began to pull out the information that had been lost through cramming.

I was a nervous wreck. Never in my lifetime had I experienced such a brainwashing. My head was aching and swimming; my body was cold with perspiration and my nerves were jumping. He took my test paper and looked me squarely in the eye, “See here, you knew this stuff, but you were not thinking! This is what I’ve been trying to tell your class all along, and I think that I have finally proved my point to you. You are unfair to yourself. If you had turned in your paper as it originally was, you would have failed. You know that yourself. All you need to do is think! Now, do you get my point?”

The only thing I could say in reply was, “Yes.” He picked up his briefcase and followed me down the steps. He broke the tension by initiating the conversation, “Say, you know a cousin of mine that lives in your town, don’t you . . .?”

THE WIND GAME Susan Beatty, ’60

First Prize, Roy A. Bur\hart Poetry Contest Trombones, trumpets blast and blare Through wintry gusts of icy air.

Their tone is harsh, unlike the breeze.

That whips so gayly through the trees.

Wind, whistle, dip and swing— Take my hand and make me sing.

A glance behind, a glance before.

It darts behind my open door.

I wheel, I twist, I turn and bend.

And gleefully chase my silent friend.

Wind, whistle, dip and swing— Take my hand and make me sing.

We We We The

top the branches, climb the peaks. fly with gulls and skim the creeks. know no limits, have no claims. world’s become a children’s game.

Wind, whistle, dip and swing—Take my hand and make me sing.

Twenty-one

"THE DAY I GREW UP" Al E. Gress, ’61

The afternoon sun was shining through the window, giving the usually drab classroom a bright cheerful look. Most of the boys were sitting on the edges of their seats, waiting to make a break for the door, as soon as the final bell would ring to end school for the day. Later, walking home, I was in a childhood dream. Carefree I hurried onward, thinking of the baseball game that would be played soon.

I threw my books onto the kitchen table, grabbed a freshly baked cupcake and in two minutes flat, started clearing out the hall closet looking for my baseball glove. Triumphantly, with glove in hand, I came out from under the family clothes when mother announced that she had a surprise for me. This “surprise” I regarded with mixed emotion. “It could only be some little thing she wants,” I thought. (The way Mom usually bribed me into doing a job for her was with freshly baked cake or pie.)

I went on to my game later, but it was not until the third inning that I realized the full significance of Mom’s words. They still lurk in the dark corner of my mind: “Al, Mr. Thompson called this afternoon and said that you could have the job at his store after school and on Sat' urdays.”

This was the death decree for my life of leisure living and baseball.

Besides, my arm would go stale if it didn’t get the daily practice. Then I could never play for the Indians!

Twelve months later, I was working late one evening washing the windows for Mr. Thompson. This must have pleased him because he gave me the next evening off, the first free evening since last baseball season.

The next day seemed to lag. History class was never so boring be­ fore. At 1 :.^0, I counted the minutes left in the school day and checked them off as the time dragged by. Finally the day ended and I could once again play baseball with my friends. I ran the three block distance be­ tween school and home in record time. Soon the game started.

After playing for about half an hour, I quit and slowly walked home.

What a silly bunch of kids, I concluded, fighting over which team the colored boy had to play with!

SONG Ruth Mugridce, ’51

Lips that once invited laughter To a winsome face Now have giv’n to quiet sorrow Dwelling place.

They speak of sunlight, never shadow.

Yet does sorrow leave its trace.

Finding in each hollow sentence Dwelling place.

Twenty-two

GREATER LOS ANGELES Phyllis Royer, '55

The lazy metropolis sprawls Its arms and legs in every direction, Still waking, still rising.

And hungry as a child for milk.

As all growing things.

Soaks up the sun.

The beaches yawn.

The mountains sigh and The deserts dream Of the city yet to be.

A city larger than any man has yet seen, A lackadaisical, semi-suburban city.

Impersonal, like all cities, and yet still The carefree, informal city Of cities.

When the smog-blanket is thrown off.

Mother Nature carefully replaces it.

The arteries and veins of the child grow And flow richly with red and white cells.

And multicolored cells.

Automobile-cells . . .

There is but one nucleus to an automobile-cell Multiplying cells, but also Devouring-one-another cells.

Yes, problems come as the child grows.

There are diseases, infections.

The sores of crime.

Particularly delinquency.

Grow, too, as the child grows.

Are these only the normal childhood illnesses?

Or are these sicknesses greater Because the child is already A giant?

Will this kicking youngster, (Although the idea of his conception Is as old as Olvera Street).

As he grows still, physically.

Become strong enough.

Be healthy enough To throw off his diseases?

Responsibilities come, as one grows Bigger, older.

Wisdom should come with power.

I No es verdad? * * Isn’t it right?

WAR Marjorie Goddard, ’62

They say you are wickedness, And this is true; For I have heard the roar of cannons And the piercing screams of dying men.

And they say you are fear.

And I shudder; For I have lived in a city Rocked day and night by the flaming thunder of bombs.

And they say you are a murderer.

And I answer; I have seen streams flowing red With the blood from the bodies of dead heroes.

And they say you are grief.

And I sob; For I remember my mother kneeling to pray When she heard her son was dead.

And they say you are hope.

And my reply is: I have seen mothers fighting a battle themselves.

Waiting, hoping, praying for news of a son lost in battle.

And they say you are destruction.

And I cringe; For I have seen the atomic ruins of Hiroshima And the war-scarred faces of Europe.

And they say you are sorrow.

And I cry out; For I have seen a Korean child Wandering in the ruins of a city looking for his home.

And they say you are torture.

And I answer: I have seen the enemy concentration camps And the marks of suffering men.

And they say you are uselessness.

And I reply: I have seen bombed planes fall to their destruction And war vessels burst into flames.

And they say you are courage.

And I wince; For I have seen brave soldiers sneaking into enemy lines Knowing they’d never return.

And they say that you have smells.

And my answer is: I have smelled the greasy odor of burnt oil And the acrid stench of exploded powder mixed with parched dust.

Twenty-four

And they say you are hate, Because you bring distrust among nations, And I scream; For this is true.

You are all of these things.

You are war.

By Carol Morse

Twenty-five

BEFORE THE FINALS

(With apologies to Shakespeare) Lloyd Bailor, ’60

Third Prize, ^uiz and ^uilJ Humorous Poetry To fail, or not to fail—that is the question— Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of disgusted professors.

Or to take pen and try the list of questions And so, by trying, pass them. To pass—to fail No more: and by a pass to say we end The scoldings and the thousand rude remarks The failures merit: ’tis a consummation Devoutly to be wished. To pass—to pass!

But what of next year’s tests? Ay, there’s the rub: For in the senior year what tests may come.

When we have written off those mortal trials.

Must give us pause: there is the respect That makes calamity of our college life.

For who would bear the quips of scornful faculty.

The counsellor’s wrath, the parents’ grievances.

When he himself might his own future make With a bare pass-mark? Who exams would fail To grunt and sweat under relatives’ wrath.

But that the fear of something after this.

The feared grad school, about whose dreadful trials We hear such sorry tales, puzzle the brain.

And makes us rather fail the exams we have Than pass to others that we know not of?

Thus fearing doth make failures of us all.

And collegians now, of great good sense and knowledge.

By this regard, their chances cast away.

And gain the name of failure.

ANTICIPATION Gloria Corbett

Honorable Mention, Freshman Poetry Spring, you’re almost here.

You with your shining face Promising there will be new days.

Spring with icy thoughts of winter still chasing you.

Promising Spring, your fragments of winter are still here.

Your cold blue sky Reminding me of blue eyes that are far away.

Someday you’ll come on midnight feet Hiding your cold blue sky with puffs of fleece.

Spring, you’re almost here.

Your yet cold wind brings color to my cheeks.

Your yellow sun warms sleeping earth.

But, Spring, please hurry!

For when you come there are brooks and walks and eyes that I will see again.

Twenty-six

ANTICIPATION OF THE CROSS Judith Stone, ’62

Third Prize, Roy A. Burkhart Poetry Contest On that Galilean shore long, long ago Christ must have walked Early in the morning.

The white-capped waves not yet warmed by wan rays of sunshine, Danced upon the shore.

As Christ gazed at the sea.

The serenity and calmness of the person of God Enveloped him and they became one.

Did Christ wonder if He could be So calm.

So sure.

So strong In days to come?

TEACHER Adelaide Weir, '61

First Prize, ^uiz and ^uill Prose When Marlene and I opened the front door, a sharp, biting blast of wind stung our faces. A few scattered snowflakes twirled from the gray sky, and ominous black clouds hung above the horizon.

“Personally, I think we’re nuts. So help me, if it gets icy, you’re driving!’’ I grumbled.

But Ad, now that she s expecting us . . , And Heaven only knows when we’ll get to see her again.”

Well, 111 admit we both won’t be home at the same time for a while—but I can’t handle this car on slippery hills. The whole thing’s crazy; I’ve got to be back here by six . . . But I do want to see her!”

An hour later, after fighting our way across the city through Sunday afternoon traffic and then winding down quiet country roads, we pulled into the driveway of a gray stone house that sat about a hundred feet from the road.

“Well, girls, its so nice to see you both again. My, you look old!

Let me take your coats.”

“You’re looking older, too, Mrs. Moore,” I thought to myself; but I didn t say it, of course. She had been a tall woman, lean-looking but not thin; now she was thin. Her dark hair, streaked with threads of gray, curled loosely. Its arrangement was not so precise as it had been three years before when she was still teaching school. Her angular face, with its prominent nose, still possessed the dry, leathery skin one expects to find only on an outdoorsman.

A pallor had lightened her complexion and dark circles shadowed her eyes. Deep lines, especially on her forehead, gave her face a severe appearance—until she smiled. Then her light blue eyes twinkled mis­

Twenty-seven

chievously, and tiny creases at the outer corners of her eyelids and lips wrinkled up till her whole face beamed.

“Won’t you sit down?” she said. “By the way, you didn’t happen to knock down the wall at the front of the driveway?”

“Of course not, not me!” I replied with a laugh. “We did get lost once, though.”

“That sounds like something I’d do, too. But goodness, John just doesn’t know what to do with his spare time any more. He hasn t had to rebuild that wall once since I retired. You know how I always man­ aged to back into it, especially in the morning when I was rushed.”

Mrs. Moore loved to tell stories on herself. Her sense of humor leaned to the ironic, and she made a hilarious joke out of every mis­ fortune that ever befell her. She next launched into a story about her first experience as a cook for a church supper—a sad tale about ten pounds of potatoes that wouldn’t cook and cream sauce that wouldn’t thicken. She even told us about a recent minor operation she had under­ gone, and she managed to make that a funny story.

“I was just so silly about the whole thing,” she laughed. “I worried myself sick because I thought I had Hodgkin’s disease. And all because the doctor ran a routine check for it. Since my brother had died from it, I was just positive I had it too. The doctor says I’m fine now. But, goodness, I just fussed and fussed.”

“But you’ve heard enough about me. Now, how’s college? I’m certainly glad you both finally got there.” She pronounced the last sen­ tence very deliberately and glared at me with mock severity. Her ques­ tion led to a lively, three-way discussion of college life. She talked with animation, gesturing vigorously with her hands.

The conversation inevitably led to reminiscences of our days at Lang­ ley High School. When I had entered Mrs. Moore’s class in my senior year, I really feared her. She had the reputation of being stern, unyield­ ing, and difficult. She never even gave an “A” unless the student did extra, outside work, in addition to having “A’s” on all his tests and themes, of course. She had infinite patience with the slow ones, though sometimes she would privately exclaim, “Goodness, I don’t see how some of these people ever got to twelfth grade!”

I learned to know her quite well when I was chairman of the com­ mencement committee. Just as the group was beginning to write the program, Mrs. Moore fell one icy morning and cracked some bones.

Since she was confined to her home for several months, I had to make numerous trips to see her.

Marlene accompanied me on the first trip. “My gosh, did you see that nightgown!” I whispered as we left the room.

“I did think it would be a little more along the grandma type,” Mar­ lene replied, and we both howled with laughter.

We discovered other little incongruities that surprised us, for she seemed so staid and dignified. Her favorite outdoor activities were golf and swimming. She was a heavy smoker. She told us that she made up her face every morning as she waited at a railroad crossing because it saved her so much time. And her red oxfords with high cork wedges just didn’t fit into our original concept of her personality either.

Twenty-eight

Time flew by rapidly that Sunday afternoon. "It's 5:15 already!

We’ll have to rush.”

“I do wish you could stay longer,” Mrs. Moore said. “I just feel like I’m back in school teaching again. I’ll be so anxious to see you at Easter. Do try to come out.”

A thin blanket of snow covered the ground. Promising her that we would be careful driving home, Marlene and I stepped out onto the porch. I promptly slipped on the wet snow and sat down with a thud.

Mrs. Moore began to laugh. “Oh dear, excuse me. Are you hurt?

I’m so sorry. It’s not really funny, but it would be just like me to fall that way.” She was still chuckling as she waved good'bye to us and we drove away. sH

*

>ie

Two months later I was trying very hard to study for a test over Byron, Shelley, and Keats. Every line I read brought back a million memories of Mrs. Moore, for the Romantic poets were her favorites.

Above them all she placed Keats—a fact which I could never reconcile with her outlook on life.

That day Keats, with his musings on life and death, seemed pecul­ iarly appropriate; for just a few days before, Mrs. Moore had died of Hodgkin’s disease. “Why?” I kept asking myself, “Why? . . . Did she know that day? . . . Did she ever know? ...”

Keats wondered why too. He had found his answer and expressed it in two of Mrs. Moore’s favorite lines. As a high school student, I had never really understood them—or much else about Keats, for that matter.

I do now. I can still hear her voice say, “Beauty is truth, truth beauty”—that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.

NIGHT John Soliday, ’62

■*1

I like to listen to the wind Wind its way through the Waiting, Willing skies.

To watch the mighty moon Peeping, Creeping Slyly as a spy.

Beaming, Gleaming Into the starry sky.

Then sleep deep till morning.

Twenty-nine

DEAR POET Lavelle Rosselot, ’3J

Dear Poet, It must be Thy lute is tuned; Thy art created just for me.

Else who in rapturous chords Or rhythmic cadence free Would blend my burst of Song— Its joyous fragments flung From star to star, The echo of my own sweet orgy Of life’s joys.

Or who in melody and mood define The aching of my lonely heart.

And thus articulated again Its muted anguish into living song.

Who but thee Could thus my lonely soul So subtly lead To rich communion In the universal joys and woes Of fellow men.

I LOVE TO WADE A MOUNTAIN STREAM David L. Cameron, '62

I love to wade a mountain stream In search of wary trout.

And watch my shiny spinner gleam As minnows dart about.

I love to see God’s wondrous works In mountains blue and high.

As Mister Trout with caution lurks Beneath my deer’s'hair fly.

He lunges forth with angry eye.

His silv’ry sides a-gleam; With jaws agape, he takes the fly And makes his run upstream.

I love to feel his surge of power With strain upon my reel; And thoughts of pride within me tower As I place him in my creel.

I love to wade a mountain stream.

And cast my lure about.

Because I never cease to dream Of catching one more trout!

TALE OF A TRIAL Dallas Taylor, ’61

Second Prize, Kathleen 'White Diml{e Essay Contest Those who enjoy a good courtroom drama will want to read Robert Traver’s Anatomy of a Murder.

“Anatomy” is the story of a murder trial and those involved in it.

The setting is Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. When an Army officer, Frederic Manion, learned that his wife had been raped by a tavern owner, Barney Quill, he took his German luger, went to Barney’s tavern and calmly shot him five times. Now, Paul Biegler, a smalPtown lawyer and an ex'district attorney, is asked to defend Manion. But Paul’s defense job is not an easy one, for Manion is obviously guilty; Paul must, therefore, attempt to prove that Manion was unable to control himself, that he was, in fact, temporarily insane. Furthermore, Claude Dancer of the state attorney general’s office is sent to help the district attorney, Mitch Lodwick, prosecute Manion. Throughout the trial, which occupies a good half of the book, Paul and Dancer, who has rapidly stolen the show from Mitch, battle it out through an exciting period of cross-examination, ob­ jections, overrulings, and flairs of temper, until the jury returns its decis­ ion and the judge rules.

With a few exceptions, critical opinions of this book are much the same. Most reviewers find the book interesting but feel it lacks polish.

James M. Cain, writing for the T^ew Tor\ Times, said he found the book extremely entertaining but thought it too long (437 pages) and too full of extraneous material. He thought the use of rape and murder none too original but did not find it offensive. Of the style he said, “The style is simple colloquial English, beautifully adapted to its task, and often pungently effective. Yet I didn’t detect any wings: it may dance, but it doesn’t soar.”

Time calls the writing “as limp as a watch by Dali.” But it says that the book does move, especially in the courtroom scenes, and, that few readers will want to put it down until the fate of Manion is decided.

The 'N.ew Tor\er calls his prose “so blankly undistinguished that it is very hard to care what happens to anybody.” But the Saturday Review says, “The first person of the narrative is rich in folksy small-town flavor and reader identification.”

Edward Weeks of the Atlantic says that although Traver has a lot to learn about the use of casual talk and the handling of his character’s introspection, “once he gets his characters into the courtrcxim, he calls his shots with an authority few writers can challenge.”

And it is no wonder Traver calls his shots with authority, for in reality he is John D. Voelker, a justice of Michigan’s Supreme Court.

Justice Voelker has lived all his life among people he writes about. He spent some time as a county district attorney before his appointment to the Supreme Court in 1956. Since he has been on the court, he has gained a reputation for well-written opinions. Incidentally, his opinions are being studied with greater care by reporters now that his “Anatomy” author­ ship has become known.

Justice Voelker has written three other books, including SmalhTown D. A., but “Anatomy” is his first success; and it is a big one. By January 18, 1959, he had made $600,000 from the hook, compared with an $18,-

Thirty-one

500'a'year salary. Some of the money from the book has gone for a new home, in which, by the way, Robert Traver is writing a new book.

It is my opinion that Mr. Voelker’s success is well deserved. Like many people, I carry an unfavorable concept of books containing sen' sational elements. Therefore, when I started reading Anatomy, I was a little wary of it, but I soon found that Anatomy of a Murder is not a thinly written book trading in sensationalism and exploiting the publics desire for a thrill. There is meat on this story’s skeleton.

Mr. Voekler uses more description than one might expect to find in a book of this type. The description of the Iron Cliffs jail house, with its gray-painted walls is good. “The dominant motif of the Sheriffs office, like that of the jail proper, was battleship gray: gray ceiling, dirty gray outside bars over gray'trimmed sooty windows. I blinked. There was a gray cement floor. . . . The gray walls were mostly mercifully overlaid with a lush mural of commercial calendars variously depicting and ad' Vertising handcuffs, leg irons, straight jackets, riot guns, tear-gas bombs and similar adjuncts to institutional decorum.”

The story is also spiced with a delightfully wry sense of humor. I es' pecially like this reference to Duncan Hines: “Mr. Duncan Hines had been there before me, as his discreetly beckoning little tin sign now reassur' ed me. Thunder Bay had at last made the grade; one could now dine in the certified knowledge that Duncan approved. I could visualize this ubiquitous little man—his bib full of gravy, his pocket full of pills, his soul full of hope, gnawing his way across a continent, leaving diplomas of approval in his wake like a gastronomic Kilroy.”

When Mr. Voelker has Paul Biegler say that law is the only thing which prevents society from turning into a snarling jungle, he is probably expressing his own belief. Whatever else it may be. Anatomy of a Murder is an exposition of the processes of American law. Mr. Voelker brings us intimately into the work of the trial lawyer: the looking up of law, the preparation of the brief and instructions, and the dubious technique of the “lecture.” And perhaps, as some reviewers have suggested, the pur­ pose of “Anatomy” is to expose the various legal tricks used by lawyers.

Some of the revelations are not pretty. We feel that both sides have the winning of their case as their only aim. For example, no effort is made to make us feel that Manion is not guilty or that his defense is anything but a phony one.

But in spite of the legal chicanery revealed, we do see people who possess greatness of heart and those who lack that quality. There is Paul Biegler who helps an old and alcoholic lawyer, Parnell McCarthy, to recover his self-respect by bringing him into the trial as an assistant and by giving him a partnership. On the other hand, we see such people as a psychiatrist for the prosecution who is willing to give up his moral and professonal integrity by testifying that Manion was legally sane at the time of the murder, without having talked with him or having given him a single test.

Whatever Mr. Voelker’s weaknesses of style may be, I feel that he has written a book which moves rapidly and holds the reader’s attention.

Moreover, the book has a powerful story with something to say. I chal­ lenge anyone to read it without being entertained, moved, and a little bit troubled.

Thirty-two

AND IN EVERY MAN ...

Rcxjer Caldwell, ’58

Deep in the damp, dark heart Of the swamp’s loneliest part.

Where blacksnakes coil and twist.

And fear hides in the morning mist.

Where lost particles of sunlight Lose themselves in the daymight.

Grows a pure, white flower.

Stretching for the light of the sun.

THE VISITOR Euretta Dixon, ’6.1

Strange, meeting you here.

Why did you come?

I feel as if I know you.

But from where?

Your eyes are dark.

Your hands so cold.

Whence do you come.

And with whom will you depart?

grumio thou art

First Prize, ^uiz and ^uill Poetry John Soliday, ’62

You are a little fellow, gay and bright Who doesn’t seem to have an earthly care; Except to clown and win your lord’s delight.

Or mock your master with a humble prayer.

Although he drags you through the mud and cold.

Uncomely dressed that he might meet his bride And shock the city with his manner bold.

You still stand laughing gaily at his side.

I like you, little rascal that you are.

And so I will become you for a while.

I’ll laugh and weep and run and fall and jar.

While trying, as you did, to make folks smile.

Your name is Grumio, I think it right.

So Shakespeare’s Grumio I’ll be tonight.

Thirty-three

THE CATCH Francis Bach, ’61

It was seven o'clock m the morning. The slow steady rain had finally ceased A slight fog was rising from the stream as I quietly made my way to the large spruce which extended its lofty branches oyer the water Hiding behind the tree, I tossed my line upstream into a slow ripple and let it float in my direction. Surely there must be a large trout in this hole' The roots along the bank entwined with one another, creating a perfect hiding place for all kinds of fish. High water had eaten away the bank causing coves here and there, an ideal feeding ground for rout.

Resting my pole on the bank, I reached into my lunch bag for a sandwich and sat down. , , j The leaves on the maple, hickory, and wild cherry were new and clean In the distance, deep blue violets spotted the grass like quilt patches. What a wonderful feeling to breathe the clean cool air and to observe God’s work of nature. I had almost forgotten that I was ^'^'^'^ucidenly my pole bent toward the water like an archer’s bow. My reel began to "sing” as it whirled and unwound. A brilliant orange flash whipped back and forth in front of me. I grasped my pole and held tightly on the line. As I raised it, the rod made such an arc that I thought it would break. Again the orange flash made another splash in the water and headed straight toward a mass of entangled roots under the bank. I must keep him from the roots, I thought to myself. Again he made another pass for the roots and again he missed them. With a leap and a splash he head' ed upstream. I tightened my line. My fingers, because of the line wrapped around them, were now getting red and numb. How strong was my leader and line? I was about to find out. Back and forth he darted in front of me. The orange flashes were like streaks of lightning. How long could I hold him? Beads of perspiration formed on my forehead and my hands became cold and clammy with excitement as I made one last attempt to land this creature. Because I was standing on the high side of the stream, I couldn’t wade into the water and use my net. This called for some other technique. His movements became somewhat slower and his body began to sway from side to side rather lazily. Here was my opportunity. Sudden­ ly he made a dash for the roots. Swish! I “horsed” him out onto the bank.

No sooner did he land on the bank than I pounced upon him. Boy! What a “whopper.” I cut the hook out of his mouth and laid the beautiful fifteen-inch German brown trout in my fish basket. , , „ , That was enough fishing for one day for I had caught the granddaddy” of the stream.

A CINQUAIN Rolfe Korsborn, ’56

(Hop-O'My-Thurnb dropped bread crumbs to find his way back out of the forest but the birds ate them.)

The birds— Hop-O-My-Thumb, Is it the birds of time You fear? O hear them on swift wings Passing!

Thirty-four

BLOW, WIND, BLOW! Judith Stewart, ’62

Third Prize (tie), ^uiz and Squill Poetry Blow, wind, blow!

Scream around corners and let everyone hear your Mighty voice.

Carry the snow in your powerful arms and throw it At our faces.

Kick a leaf across the yard.

Bat a piece of paper to another part of town.

Grab the limbs of a majestic tree and twist them Until they groan in pain.

Bite off the tiny twigs and spit them on the ground.

Blow, wind, blow!

...I,. • .

V ...

I

..

sir!^ i

. ,,.i

THE HOLE John Payton, ’5'9

First Prize, 'Walter Lowrie Barnes Short Story Contest 1959

The brazen July sun was moving rapidly to the western horizon to seek a night’s rest before returning to bake and broil the Virginia countryside. The green of the woods and fields was slowly changing to drab yellows and pale greens as the unmerciful, heavenly fire sent its powerful rays to the earth in search of constant destruction. In competition with the sun were the occasional torrents of rain that burst down' ward just often enough to provide an oppressive, damp heat to swelter out the summer life that was not broiled by the sun.

Private Ned Leslie and Captain Raymond Nestic felt all of this wrath on the nineteenth of July, 1861. They felt the constant dampness and the oppressing heat that made every living thing droop limply where it stood and hope that there might be some breeze to help cut the thick, wet air. The sun would take on various colors during the day—some' times a bright white, then a pale yellow and even a dark orange'yellow if there was dust in the air to filter the direct rays from the sun. Leslie and Nestic welcomed any kind of relief. The heat made their shirts cling to their backs like sticky, wet rags and the long, rolling streams of sweat would start from their necks and armpits and trickle down to soak their waists.

Leslie and Captain Nestic knew what it meant to be in a war and also to be at the mercy of the enemy.

Thirty-five

II “Come outa thar, Bluc'Belly! We got us a nice piece o hot lead to put right betwixt yo’ eyes!’’

Ned Leslie heard this cordial invitation from the bottom or a pit The six Rebel soldiers had him and a badly'wounded captain pinned down in an eight'by'twenty-foot hole. It was deep enough to let a sixfoot man stand up without getting his head shot off by ever-ready, hostile rifles. The Rebels were hidden behind rocks and large bushes that studded the field in front. In the back was a forbidding patch of briars and blacl^ berry bushes that were ready to rip at anything that tried to pass through them. Logs scattered around the rim of the hole were rotten *^he bottom with moisture and baked hard on the top from heat. Some dead tree limbs, with their many twisted, wooden fingers pointing accusingly at the sky, lay to the left. To the right, before the larger trees, was a small forest of stunted, leafless saplings that rose out of the ground like many frail wooden needles compared with the majestic elms that stood behind them.

“That thar Yankee is so yeller that he’s afraid to come outa his hole.

He thinks we might hurt his purty little swelled head!

Ned Leslie leaned against the right front corner of the pit. He could look like a deserter, but who knows exactly what a deserter looks like.

He was in his early thirties but his smooth, almost boyish face did not show thirty hard years. The skin on his face glistened on his straight, smooth cheeks. His cheekbones ran in a thin, flat strip back to his highpointed flat ears. Dark brown hair was plastered down flat on his head by a wide-brimmed, dirty, brown, felt hat. It was tipped in front to form a line with his long, sensitive nose. It also shaded his deep-set eyes that had an unblinking, cat-like mysteriousness to them, showing abso­ lutely no emotion. Transparent skin showed the long, stringy muscles, rippling veins, and protruding Adam’s Apple of his neck. Two supple, wiry arms hung from slightly rounded shoulders, shielding a caved-in chest. Long, bony fingers grew out of equally bony wrists that were tightly clasped by an ill-fitting shirt. His uniform had been old and faded when it was issued to him and together with the dirt and sweat of the day, it was hard to distinguish from the Southern Gray, especially at dusk. Ever-widening rings of dried sweat circled his armpits and the shirt clung to his back in places showing long, lithe back muscles.

His constantly-wandering eyes looked over at the captain.

The captain was different. His campaign cap was lying beside him and Ned saw a high, rounded forehead that was accented by a receding, red hairline, thinning on the top and back. A medium growth of even whiskers followed under his cheekbones, sinking his already agonyshrunken cheeks into his teeth. A neatly-trimmed mustache joined the beard to surround lips that were always poised as if to say peace. Pain and fatigue, as well as sun, had drawn the corners of his eyes into tight crow’s-feet even though his eyes were closed in a fitful sleep. A once beautifully-tailored uniform was now dirty and ragged and the brass on his sword scabbard was tarnished and scratched. His left boot came up over his knee cap. His right leg did not resemble a leg except for a vague outline.

Thirty-six

Only this morning Captain Nestic had taken his company out to stop a Southern company from trying to break through the Union lines north of Bull Run. The two forces had clashed about an hour before noon and there had been an alhout battle that lasted just a short time.

Both companies had started with about one hundred and fifty men and in less than an hour there could not have been more than twenty men in all, on both sides, that were still standing. The Southern commander had the advantage because he had a whole platoon that was responsible for a small cannon. This cannon could be moved easily because it was light and could be concealed without much effort.

When the two companies first met, they were both coming out of the woods, at the same time into a clearing. They retreated immediately back into the woods. Captain Nestic did not see the cannon at this time.

Later in the skirmish, he ordered his men to charge the Rebels while there was a lull in the firing. While he was leading the charge across the open field, the Southern commander saw a good opportunity to use his cannon and he laid a beautiful shot about fifteen yards to the right and ten yards behind the hard'charging Northern commander. The cannon ball was a “minnie ball” that was designed to burst into tiny, ragged fragments when it came in contact with something. The fragments from this ball had ripped and smashed against Captain Ncstic’s leg until it had reduced it to a blcxjdy mass of skin, hair, bone fragments and pulpy, ragged flesh.

He had dragged himself painfully off the battlefield and had found this hole. He thought that he might have some protection here and so he slid to the bottom. He fainted immediately from all of his effort.

Ill

“You alive, captain?” Ned asked slowly, under his breath.

There was no answer. The captain lay still and curled up in the far left corner of the hole. Leslie looked closely and saw that his shirt moved in and out ever so slightly. He was alive.

Ned took off his hat and tried to cool his sweat-stained face. The salt from his sweat was mixed with dirt and formed a brittle crust that scratched when he would move his mouth. His lips were dried to a purple.

They cracked when he moved them, the little trickles of blood giving his mouth a few drops of moisture.

The captain stirred a little and then kicked with his left leg at the flies and bugs that were mingling around his wounded right leg. Ned saw the helpless figure and he went over and fanned the persistent pests away with his wide-brimmed hat. He busied himself for two minutes and then wondered why he was doing something for someone else, especially this captain. He put his hat back on his head and pulled it down to shield his eyes. He started to go back but his eyes caught the officer’s.

“Thanks . . .,” mumbled the captain.

Ned jumped up quickly and moved as far away from the officer as possible. He knew that captain. Captain Raymond Nestic, USA, West Point, class of 1848. It was his company commander, the company he had deserted yesterday evening about this time.

“Your name is Leslie, isn’t it, soldier?” asked the captain in a faint voice.

Thirty-seven

Leslie pretended not to hear him. He reached up to the rim of the hole with his bony fingers and dug into the moist ground for a better hold. He eased himself up, slowly and painfully, as if to make an in' conspicuous escape. His dirty brown hat just barely appeared above the edge when a rifle barked and a dull “slap” sent his hat flying to the back of the hole. u , i ■ “Trying to git out, Yankee? He, he, he, he, he! Next time you raise that swelled head o’ your’n I’ll blow it right off’n yer neck!”

Ned slid down dejectedly and his fingers dug little lines in the dirt.

He felt helplessly pinned down by a multitude of oppressing forces. The Rebel soldiers were around him in front. To the rear were the briars and blackberry bushes. On the opposite end of the hole was his com' manding officer, a man who lived by the book and would turn him in as a deserter if they ever got out of this trap.

Neither of the men had any water and the sun had heated and steamed the hole until it was a barbecue pit. The sun was going down, but there was no gentle breeze to give a much'needed fresh breath of air to a captive deserter. The two hours that he had been in the hole seemed like two centuries.

IV

So this is where all of his wandering had finally led him.

“A stinking hot hole!” he thought to himself.

His sharp chin rested heavily on his scrawny chest as he felt the ominous burden that pressed down on him. He slid into a sitting posi' tion in the bottom of the pit. His knees touched together and the toes on his cracked boots sprawled outwards and the heels dug into the soft, red dirt. He folded his arms over his knobby knees and buried his nar' row forehead in the dirty, rumpled sleeves of his shirt. He took a deep, painful breath of stagnant air and became dizzy.

“Something got you down, soldier, or should I say yellow deserter?”

The captain’s eyes had lost some of their glassy appearance and he had raised up on his elbows. He made a futile gesture to drive away the densely'collecting flies from his pulpy wound.

“Do me a favor, will you? Rip off some of your shirt and cover my leg up so that these flies won’t get in there and poison me!”

The helpless, pleading sound of the officer’s voice made Ned forget his own depression for a moment. Grasping his left shirt sleeve cuff with his right hand, he ripped the sleeve up and off at his shoulder. He pushed himself up to a standing position and drove all the flies away with his hat. Then with a tenderness of a new mother powdering her first baby, he dabbed at the wound with his handkerchief until it was soaked with'blood. He gently lifted the mangled leg so that he could get the sleeve under it. He wrapped it around but it only covered the ankle.

He looked hopelessly at what was left of the leg and let it drop back to the ground.

“Ohhh . . . ! Take it easy!!” moaned the officer. “You were doing all right. Find something else to wrap it with!”

Just then. Captain Nestic dropped back, his head hitting the wall of the hole sharply. He let out a little animal sound of pain and went into a mild coma.

Thirty-eight

Ned Leslie looked down at him and felt a slow swell of nausea chum in his stomach. So much blood and suffering so close to him made him limp. He was glad he had never been in battle.

He regained some of his composure, and even though he was on the verge of vomiting he tore off the right leg of his trousers up to his knee and began to wrap the rest of the dull red wound until the gaping mess was covered from the flies and bugs.

He crawled lifelessly back to the other side of the hole, his knees and hands scraping along in the dirt. When he reached the other side he stopped for a moment, resting on his skinned knees and palms. A violent retching tried to force his intestines out of his mouth. He coughed and gasped and tried to spit, but there was no moisture in him. His knees and arms grew very limp and he collapsed to the beckoning ground. His body began to quiver with his faint whimpering and tears made little clean lines on his dirty face as they trickled down to join the ever-present damp­ ness of the red earth.

V

Three sharp slaps made three little spurts of dirt fly up on the back of the pit as the echoes of the gun shots clattered back and forth through the trees.

“Come out, Yankee! Come outa there! We ain’t got all evenin’ to wait fo’ you!”

The Rebel shouts and shots jolted Ned back to reality. He raised up on his elbows and turned around to look at the captain. The officer was sitting up now with his back resting against the side wall of the hole.

“They mean it, Leslie,” said the captain. “They aren’t going to wait much longer. It’s almost sundown now. It won’t be long until they come after us. I thought there would be a Union patrol looking for me by now. I don’t know if they would waste time looking for you, a de­ serter!”

These last words, “a deserter,” hung in the unmoving air for a mo­ ment and then were lost in another echo of rifle fire.

“That patrol is sure to hear those Rebels banging away with their rifles!” the captain said encouragingly.

“We’re cornin’ after yo’ pretty soon, Blue-Belly, so don’t you go to sleep and miss our surprise! He, he, he!”

The leering laugh ran cold with Ned’s blood through his heated body and he shook with chills.

“Those Rebs are really getting to you, aren’t they, soldier?”

Captain Nestic’s voice added to the tension that was straining his nervous system until he thought that the back of his neck would freeze with aching.

“You should be glad that you didn’t stick around last night, Leslie.

We mustered out this morning to go into battle. Just a little skirmish with some renegade Rebs but it was combat. We missed you at roll call this morning and somebody said they hadn’t seen you since you went on guard duty last evening. I assumed that you had deserted seeing that the guard that followed you found your rifle and duty belt leaning against the tree where you left them. You just decided that you didn’t want to play war with us, is that it? Tell me this, if you deserted, why

Thirty-nine

did you stick around this area and get caught down in this hole with me? I got wounded and I found a safe place, until you came diving in here with those Rebs hot on your trail. Now look where we are!”

Ned Leslie dropped his gaze to his boots and started to trace a five' pointed star in the dirt with his forefinger. He did not answer the cap' tain. He could not. i-i t r j I take it that your silence means you acted just like I figured. Too bad! I thought you might have tried to defend yourself. You know that if you desert in the face of ... ” -lt i j i_ , Ned knew exactly what the captain was going to say He had heard these words before and he was hearing them now.

It you desert in the face of battle, you will be shot!” The sound still hummed in his ears from his previous experience and the word “shot rang loud now and threatened to shatter his brain. He wanted to run out and let the Rebels shoot him outright but he was held back by a strange feling of responsi' bility for the disabled and helpless Captain Raymond Nestic.

“I’ll give the Rebs another five minutes before they come in here after us. You want to get my revolver and get ready to try to stop them?”

“It won’t do any good,” said Ned. “I don’t know how to shoot, and besides. I’m scared. Scared numb!” ^ “Oh, you’re scared, are you! Well, if you don t do something we might as well just sit here and let them come. I m sure they 11 rnake the rest of me look like my right leg and it s hard to tell what they 11 do to you!”

Ned Leslie felt the bitter words of the captain probe at his shallow sense of responsibility and he tried to think what he could do.

“Wait a minute!” said the captain. “Those Rebs followed you and I’ll bet they think you’re the only one in here!

Captain Nestic wanted to say more but a lightning flash of pain burned its way up to his brain and he slumped over with his head falling limply on his right shoulder. r • i u r i The captain’s last statement was working on Ned s mind. He thought that if he could break for the trees on the right maybe the Rebels would follow him and would leave the captain safe. Then he thought of the picture of the Rebels tying him to a tree and torturing him until he screamed for death. He was going to die anyhow so what made the difference. The captain has suffered.

VI

Ned Leslie pulled his hat brim low over his eyes and tightened his faded blue trousers that looked like Confederate Gray. He dug the toes of his boots into the right wall of the hole and looked over at Captain Nestic. His head was still lying on his shoulder.

Ned wet his lips and said, “I hope you’ll forgive me.

Raymond Nestic rested peacefully in Death’s arms.

Ned braced himself for a tremendous leap. He vaulted out of the hole like a gazelle and dug into the ground with all of his energy to gain speed in crossing the open space of ground between him and the compara­ tive shelter of the trees. Bullets dug up the red dirt all around him as he made a flinching, zig-tag course to the woods.

Forty

Once he reached the trees he ran as fast as his long, frail legs would carry him through the undergrowth and choppy ground. All the Rebels were right behind him yelling and firing shots that hit trees, not Ned. Low hanging branches raked at his face until he felt as if he had received a severe whipping. He was jabbed constantly by such yells as, “I’m goin’ to ketch 'im! . . . Shoot for his head! . . . Lemme bash his brains out! ... He can’t go far in these woods! . . . I’ll cut him up with my knife! ...” If only he could find some direction to follow where he might find some help. He did not know where he was going but he hoped and pleaded, between great gulps of air, that he would find help.

The trees all looked the same now, tall and barren against a fastdarkening sky. His wind was gone and he gasped and strangled for air in the dusky, damp twilight. His boots seemed to drag him into the ground and they caught on the slightest rises in the ground. He lurched forward with a jerky motion and finally reached a small clearing about thirty feet across. He stumbled to the other side and leaned against a dead, bark'skinned tree. His heaving chest waited for the end. The Rebels got closer and he could see their dark gray forms come staggering through the trees. He was spent and finished but when they finally came into the clearing he could not stand still and let them take him without some effort.

He started to break into the woods when he heard rough, commanding voices all around the clearing.

“Drop the guns, Rebs!”

The Rebel answer was one, final “Rebel Yell” and then a loud clat­ ter of rifle fire into the trees surrounding them. The Union rifles flashed back in oranges and yellows and the Rebels crumpled under the barrage of bullets. Ned Leslie started to move toward the hidden Union troops.

“I sure am gla . . . ahhhh . . .!” His words were cut short by a flat piece of lead smattering his knee cap.

A Union soldier shouted, “There’s one left over there! Get him!”

Another burst of fire and a large hole opened in his intestines and the blood gushed out, soaking his shirt and trousers. A searing flash of pain numbed his body and he collapsed on the ground.

He heard the Union troops moving around, inspecting the dead. He held out his arm and his hand swung limply, motioning a soldier to him.

The trooper started to come, followed by a sergeant. Ned pushed and forced his breath into his voice.

“Here! . . . Wait! ...” he gasped.

The soldier looked at him from about ten feet and asked, “You still alive, Reb?” Ned Leslie made one last straining effort, “The . . . Cap . . .”

His last words, telling them where they could find Captain Nestic, were choked and drowned by a convulsion of blood and saliva. His body grew taut and rigid, shook in a violent spasm, then lay still and cold.

The trooper looked at him more closely and shook his head, “No . . .”

“No, what?” asked the sergeant.

“I thought this Reb was trying to tell me somethin’ but I guess he was just dyin’ hard.”

Forty-one

VII

The sun finally slipped into its western hole and the earth began to breathe more freely. A gently, barely-moving breeze sent its freshness through the leaves and bushes. A slow, creeping mist moved in the Virginia woods and laid a soft, faded blue blanket over Ned Leslie and Raymond Nestic.

PERCUSSION Susan Beatty, ’60

Second Prize, ^uiz and ^uill Poetry a drummer sits alone behind his trap, picks up his sticks, and slowing starts to tap he finds a rhythm and begins to rap a steady beat, a lightly tapping sound his hand moves faster as his foot jerks down to drum a lower hum—his thoughts are drowned in artistry of rhythm and the sound of syncopation—tap, ra, ta, ta, dum, he wildly beats until his pulse has come to throb with every move—he has become hypnotically enslaved by but a drum.

SONG TO SOAP

(lost in tub) John Soliday, '62

You little ivory package of delight!

Why do you make me squirm and plunge and fight?

Why do you sink when you’re supposed to float?

Your own gray cover said “Just Li\e a Boat.

Humbug! I’m sure I placed you in this tub Expecting now to use you in my scrub.

But you are playing this most silly game.

I’ve notions now to call you some vile name.

But I’ll refrain, remembering my place And leave you no sure evidence to trace Showing my guilt. There’s nothing you don’t see!

Sweet soap, I wish I knew where you could be.

You’re worse than fleas, or any other bug.

Now look! I’ve accidentally pulled the plug And all the water’s rushing down the drain.

Why do you put me through this dreadful strain?

I’ll have to plug and fill the tub anew But I refuse until I locate you— Why, there you are! I never thought to see If you were wedged between the tub and me.

Forty-two

By Carol Morse

Forty-thtee

BIRTHDAY David Sghar, ’62

And now, the twentieth year has come and passed, It was a year of carefree joyous life.

But now, the future must be faced at last Through eyes that fear the hint of future strife.

For as the temperate spring must sadly bow To summer’s sultry heat with sore regret.

Now also must our dreamy youth allow Its carefree self, to daily care beget.

So finally now, the road of life is clear; Fulfillment of our youthful hopes we see.

As youth’s own happy longings, never fear.

May show us what our own life’s goal will be.

Although in spring the growing has begun.

It’s not till summer that the harvest’s done.

THE ORGANIZATION COMPLEX Bev Easterday, ’60

Second Prize, ^uiz and ^uill Humorous Prose Committee. The very word fills me with apprehensive chills. This rather bizarre reaction can be traced to my last year of college. It was during this year that organization became a fad that was carried out with almost farcial dignity.

Our committees weren’t limited to the ordinary varieties such as decoration, refreshment, or program. Our committees were supposed to exemplify the utmost of organization, and, therefore, were given very specific duties. The organizers on campus saw that committee discussion saved much time for the entire club. Therefore, they reasoned that small sub'group discussions would save much time for the parent com' mittee. This plan was first tried by a refreshment committee. It, like Gaul, was divided into three parts: one for punch, one for cookies, and one for table setting. This worked so well that all organizations began to work on the same principle. Committees met to divide, not to discuss.

This, of course, has many disadvantages. One group of decorators, sub'divided into plan, paper, cut, Scotch tape, and thumbtack. The three members of the thumbtack section couldn’t decide on the proper color to supply. This argument went on until the day of the affair, when the Scotch tape faction went ahead and put the decorations up.

Another minor but memorable incident occurred when a group di' vided until each section was comprised of one person. This plan proved very taxing as each individual then had to think for himself and work on his own decision. I might mention that this unfortunate case never happened again.

As the number of student committees grew, the administration took notice. They realized the time-saving merits of this organized way of doing things. Therefore, they encouraged faculty as well as student participation. To start the ball rolling in faculty circles they chose panels and gave them important topics for discussion.

Forty-four

One such group studied the current system of registration. After nine months of careful discussion they wrote a report and gave it to the administration. The administration, in turn, handed this manuscript to another faculty group for extensive discussion and revision. In this manner one report, if handled carefully, served for several semesters.

A few harried professors complained about the time spent in com­ mittee discussion, but most of them were satisfied with the statement that anything worth doing took time.

As the year wore on, students began to organize even more.

Representative students were delegated to attend class lectures and take notes. Other collegians compiled this information and sent out mimeo­ graphed copies to those interested. The professors again followed the lead and began to take turns lecturing. This left them more time for the now daily round-table discussions. The only serious problems with this phase of organization came at finals when no one could decide who was to give or take the exams.

This was the blow that shook the whole system. The administration immediately delegated seven officials to discuss the entire problem. Seven students met to discuss the faculty committees. Still another combina­ tion of seven faculty members met to study student committees. The three groups met separately and together. They shuffled members like playing cards. They called in outsiders for opinions. Finally they decided our campus was so organized that it was disorganized.

The last I heard, no plan to relieve the situation had been formulated.

According to my informants, the re-vamping commission hadn’t met yet.

The members were too busy attending committee meetings.

ODE TO RHETORIC Bev Easterday, ’60

The parts of speech aren’t friends to me They play an impish role.

They change their action frequently They seem beyond control.

Oh, I can learn the simple rules And say them till I’m blue.

But what are they but useless tools Till I apply them too?

Yes, “Ask the question of the verb—■ Ask 'Where? or When? or Why?’’ This simple method is superb, (When it will just apply.)

The very terms are frightening.

“Oh, look them up and tell!”

That isn’t too enlightening When one can’t even spell.

I guess the thing for me to do Is study hardily— Or is it hard? Gorsh, I don’t know!

Oh, won’t you please help me?

Forty-five

SONNET Judith Stone, ’62

O thou who bringest joy into my life Dost thou not know that if thou wouldst accept My love, no more wouldst thou endure thy strife; But live in peace and bliss beyond concept?

For deep within the breast of every man There is a heartfelt need for such a love From some one soul who understandeth and Hath faith in mindfulness from God above.

Indeed, my love, thy griefs I sense, then know.

Until I might well be part of thy soul.

And so I am, so come and let us grow Together in our striving to be whole.

As deep calleth to deep; as seas draw rain.

Just so compelleth my heart to seek out pain.

MY ADVICE TO A BRIDE

(7v{ot exactly what Polonius to Laertes had in mind) Pat Speer Lobrino, ’59

There,—my rice goes with you!

And these few nuggets in thy memory Keep thou character.—Give thy thoughts no tongue.

Remember the advantage of surprise attack.

Be thou familiar, and when necessary, vulgar.

The friends he has, no matter who.

Be nice and put up with them; But don’t feel called upon to entertain Every Tom, Dick, or Harriet from the office. Beware Of entrance to a quarrel; but being in.

Smile and take his hand (you’ll win!)

Give every man thy ear, but him the two of them: Take each man’s compliment, but reserve thy judgment.

Squeeze a new hat out of the kitchen budget; For a new hat oft saves the day.

Neither a borrower nor a lender be.

Or you’ll never get the hat, and besides.

Borrowing dulls the gifts of husbandry.

This above all: to thine own man be true.

And it must follow as the night the day, Thou canst not then be false to any man.

Forty-six

A DARKENED HORIZON Rita Zimmerman, ’61

“Step right in, girls. This is it,” announced the hostess as she pushed the chewing gum to one side of her mouth long enough to articulate.

Hugging a large bundle of groceries against her tall, slender body, she gently nudged us through the doorway into a spacious, modern kitchen.

She suddenly turned, stunning us both as she said, “How do you like our house? My husband built it special for my birthday and now— Jodie and I don’t have no man. He has gone and left us. But, Jodie and I get along all right, don’t we, ‘Hon’?” she continued, pulling her frowning daughter to her side.

Moving quickly to the window, she pointed and remarked, “See all those frame houses up the block? My no'good husband built all those.

We used to live in that yellow house, but it was too small. The one I really like is that exclusive one on the corner. Some day we were planning to move into it. See it? While I fix somethin’ to eat, why don’t you girls slip into somethin’ more comfy and then join us in the livin’ room.”

Thanks so much, Mrs. Bagley, we replied weakly, recovering from the initial shock of the new environment. “It won’t take us long to get into our pajamas and housecoats. It’s all right, isn’t it, if we come dressed that way?”

Heavens sakes! We don’t have any men around here anymore, so go right ahead. Jodie, go warsh now and use the bathroom before the girls get ready. Go now!”

Entering the living room al few minutes later, we sank into the plush maroon davenport which contrasted weirdly with the green walls. The mother and daughter had already situated themselves comfortably in the softest chairs in the room. Jodie, an overgrown girl of fifteen, towering five feet, seven inches, had propped herself onto the chair beside the organ. Her taste for a green wool sweater, a blue cotton skirt with a red scarf was no worse than her mother’s choice of a pink sheath dress contrasting sharply with her reddish matted hair. The mother, still retain­ ing her youthful figure, squared her hazel eyes in our direction. Not knowing exactly how to be friendly or how to open a conversation with coeds, she made an initial attempt with a series of questions: “And what do you all do at college? What are you studying to be? Does your choir tour all year long? How do you find time to do your lessons?”

“Well, I’m an English major and I’m a sophomore this year. I hope to teach some day soon. We are touring only this week to Detroit .

Ah, that picture of your daughter is very good. When was it taken?”

With renewed spirit Mrs. Bagley moved over to the far desk saying, “Over here is a picture of my daughter taken when she was about six years old. And here is one of her when she was eleven. The tinted photo over there was made just last fall. Did you see her baby shoes in bronze on the end table?”

We nodded our heads politely and she continued, “Yep, we have no man no more, do we, ‘Hon’? He’s found hisself another woman now.”

Casting a maternal glance at her daughter, she smiled pleasantly and re­ plied, “Jodie and I make out all right. I’m out of work now, but I’m

Forty-seven

waitin' for a phone call any day now from the plant. I shouldn’t be out of work too long.”

The conversation shifted to Jodie, who meekly queried, “Do either of you play the organ . . ? ” The mother cut in and echoed, “Yes, I’ve been hopin’ that one of you or both might play somethin’ for us. Jodie took lessons for a while and can play a few pritty tunes, but she isn’t interested anymore. Jodie’s daddy gave her this two^manual organ as a Christmas gift. I had also hoped that it would be a means of livelihood for her some day, but I guess not. She hardly plays it anymore.”

Jodie attempted again, “^X^on t you play some hymns for us?

Carol volunteered to play first, while I tried my best to hit a medium in conversation with Mrs. Bagley. “What does your daughter plan to do after she graduates?” I inquired.

Slipping the chewing gum to the other side of her mouth, she replied, “She’ll go to the Moody Bible Institute.” The daughter gave no reaction. However, she was staring my way at the pretzels and coke placed in front of me. I took the hint and reached for a few chips.

Immediately Jodie and her mother slovenly grabbed some for themselves.

The tension was broken for awhile.

“How do you like high school, Jodie?” I asked, initiating the convet' sation again.

“Oh, all right, I guess. I don’t like to study, but Mommy usually helps me out. Mom, would you pass me some more pretzels and another coke?”

After devouring both, she announced, “I’m gettin’ sleepy, so I think I’m going to bed. Mommy has to take me to school at seven'thirty in the mornin’. Good night.”

“Good night,” we replied. Then she sauntered out of the room, her long bushy hair bouncing behind her back.

“Perhaps you kids would like to watch T.V. ...”

SHELL SONG Rolfe Korsborn, ’56

O lady of the name Are you just another dame Or a damsel with a dulcimer Singing a faint compleynt Of your lover’s sweet youth And the white birds flying.

Lovely labials of pure delight.

Melody gathering in the mind To form a jewel of the song.

Proving light upon light.

Not as mirrors removed or moved But love the pivot.

Forty-eir/ht

BOY FRIEND John Soliday, ’62

“Mother Mary!” The slow murmur grew louder, becoming a rumbling chant. “Mother Mary ...”

“Officer! Officer!” a woman’s voice demanded above the deafening clamor. “Have they gotten all of the children out?”

A wailing siren almost drowned the officer’s attempt to answer. “I don’t know,” he yelled. “They’re trying as hard as they can.”

“It’s my little boy. Tommy. He didn’t come home tonight!” Her voice trembled as she wiped the long brown hair from her eyes. “Where did they take the children?”

The officer didn’t hear her so she pushed past him to get a closer look at the scene.

Chicago’s Our Lady of the Angels School was rising in a high blaze of flames and smoke. Black cloaked firemen were spraying long, wavy streams of water into the blazing building trying to save it. Crowds milled and pushed like small mobs. Ambulances, their red lights blinking, pulled in line to pick up the injured children.

A small, vague form appeared in a third story window. The woman squinted, running forward, trying to see through the heavy blanket of smoke. Then she recognized the figure.

“Tommy! Tommy!”

The child, frightened by the flames which surrounded him, lunged forward, his clothes burning as he fell.

Screams arose from the crowd as a terrified mother knelt over the fragile heap of her son.

“Tommy, can you hear me? Tommy ...”

There was no answer. ♦ * Altin Marzino tried to fight his way to the school, but he was held back by tbe intercepting line of policemen.

“It’s my baby,” he explained in his broken English. “She come’a to school today, I see her go but she don’t come home. Where is my baby?”

A cold mist blew into the officer’s face as he spoke. “They’re doing all they can. Mister. You’ll have to wait.”

“But my baby!” His voice became frantic. “My Maria!”

“They’re taking the children to the hospital. You might go there and wait.”

Quickly Altin made his way to the hospital. The long white halls were packed with waiting people.

“Is a Maria Marzino here?” he nervously asked at the desk. “She don’t come home from school. I think maybe she get hurt. The policeman told me to come ...”

“Could you describe her?” the nurse asked in a sympathetic but routine manner.

“She’s about this high,” Altin started. “She has black curly hair, long and ...”

“Any unusual features, birthmarks, scars-'” “She has a scar in the palm of her hand. It was while we were in the old country that she ...”

“Any jewelry?” the nurse cut in.

Forty-nine

He thought for a minute and then remembered a ring she wore on her right hand.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, wiping his sweaty hands on his heavy, gray coat. “Why do you need to know about the ring? Is my baby dead?

Is she? Is my Maria ...”

“If you’ll please sit down, Mr. Altino,” the nurse comforted, “we’ll see if we can’t find your little girl.”

The man turned slowly and walked awkwardly to the opposite side of the room. Exhausted, he fell into a chair. In the seat beside him a young'looking woman sobbed softly. Two doctors stood talking beside the drinking fountain. He overheard one say, “They have seventy-six dead now and ambulances lined up nine deep at the emergency door.” The other doctor shook his head slowly as they disappeared down the hall.

Altino waited for hours. Finally an older nurse led him to a smaller room where people were waiting in groups of seven to be led through the rooms of charred bodies. As his turn came, Altino arose bravely. He took his place in line and was walking down the hall. Suddenly he heard a voice behind him.

“Papa!” He turned, engulfing the fragile body in his big, husky arms. Through his tear-filled eyes he recognized the small figure of his daughter.

Suddenly his voice grew weak. “Why?” he whispered. “Why did my child live when others children did not? Why was my baby spared?”

Quickly he threw his coat around her shoulders and carried her to the big doors through which he had entered.

“Papa, did you see Tommy?” she asked. “Tommy is my boy friend.”

“No, my baby. Papa did not see Tommy.” He walked quickly down the steps to the street.

"YOU'LL NEVER GET PAST BAR3TOW" Dallas Taylor, ’61

The sun beat fiercely upon the Mojave Desert. The inside of our 1942 Ford was hot in spite of a tub of ice in the back seat . . . sort of a poor man’s air conditioner. When at last we saw a gas station ahead, we decided to stop.

This twentieth-century version of a trading post almost in the middle of nowhere was an unexpected sight. The sign above the station read, “Gas, Groceries, Cold Soda Pop and Beer.” The station was a rectangular frame buildiig with peeling gray paint. Two ancient gasoline pumps of the round type with a visible gas level stood in front of the covered porch.

The rusted screen door of the station swung open and a tall, elderly man appeared.

“What can I do for you?”

“Fill her up, please.”

“Sure enough. From Ohio, huh? Never been there myself. Never been off the desert.”

The man moved slowly to a pump, lifted the hose from its hook, and started to fill the gas tank. You might say he was a picture of the so-call­

Fifty

ed desert rat. He was about six feet two inches tall, thin and big-boned.

His face was brown and wrinkled. Uncombed gray hair fell over deep-set gray eyes. He wore a pair of faded green work trousers and a red shirt.

The final touch was added by scuffed brown high'topped work shoes.

Mother and I went inside the dark and dingy station.

“What do you want?” asked a woman we took to be the man’s wife.

“We just want to get in out of the heat,” Mother said.

“I’d like to get out of the heat too. My man and me we talked about leaving the desert, but we never have. We were born and raised on it.

Got married and had our children on it. Guess we’ll die here too. Don’t suppose we could live anywhere else now. Too old to change. I’m seventy and Ezra’s seventy-five. Danged hot ain’t it? Care for some cold pop or beer? No? Well, bet you’re surprised to find cold drinks out here. Ain’t got any ‘lectricity, but we have ice hauled in special every day.”

The woman was short and thin. Her straight white hair was parted in the middle and held back on the sides by several hairpins. Her dress was a faded flower print. When she stepped from behind the counter, we saw that she wore heavy white stockings, and, like her husband, wore work shoes.

When we went back to the car, she followed with a lively step for a person of seventy. She walked to the rear of the car and looked at the license plate. Then she walked to the front and looked questioningly at the bare front bumper. “You can’t drive here without two license plates. You’d better get another plate or you’ll never get past Barstow.

That’s the place where cars entering Californy are checked for things not allowed in the state.”

My father explained that at the time, in 1951, Ohio used only one license plate and a windshield sticker. But as though she had discovered a great truth and was not going to let go of it, the woman kept telling us that we would never get past Barstow. Again Father tried to explain, but she could not understand. If the man understood, he wasn’t saying.

My father gave up trying to explain, and, excusing ourselves, we drove off.

Looking back, we saw the man and his wife go back inside the station.

And I imagine the woman was shaking her head over the people from Ohio who would “never get past Barstow.”

DEDICATED TO ALL CAMP COUNSELORS Peg English, ’61

Kneel always when you light a fire; Kneel fearfully and begrudgingly.

Ever hopeful and thankful be That roommate’s slacks aren’t too tight for thee.

And on the ascending flame inspire A little prayer that you will have the strength to rise again.

Curses on this ritual! Its warmth and light Further encourage the wretched mosquitoes to bite.

Kneel always when you light a fire Whether with lighter, match, or kerosene gimmicks.

Don’t ask me why—just KNEEL!!

Fifty-one

TOMORROW IS ANOTHER DAY Kaye Koontz, '62

I guess I must be tired. It’s been a long day. What I need is a good, stiff drink. But there’s no place to get a drink here—here in this dismal house, miles from civilization. No phone, no television, no liquor.

Ah, yes, the simple life.

How did I wind up here? My doctor said I needed a break from the hectic life in the big city. Well, this is certainly a change. And it was so good of my dear, sweet aunt to tell my mother she’d be glad to have me stay with her for a month or so. I’ve been here only one day!

A whole month of this—I can’t take her so'called living. Dear Aunt Hilda. Why, why, do I allow myself to be talked into things like this?

Twenty-three years old, an “aspiring young actress,’’ as they say, and here I am, badgered into staying with a dowdy aunt in the middle of Hicksville.

Now what does she want? “No, Aunt Hilda, I think I’ll stay here in the den and read. What? No, I’m not sleepy. What? Oh, for heaven’s sake. Aunt Hilda, it’s only eleven o’clock! I’ll come to bed when I’m ready. Yes, good night. Yes, dear, pleasant dreams to you, too.’’ Honestly!

Eleven o’clock. Only twelve hours ago I was in New York, just finishing packing for my delightful stay in the country. What a laugh!

Imagine, I packed two cocktail dresses! And then, just ten hours ago, I was saying goodbye to Robert. I wish he could have taken me to the train. But he’s so busy. He promised to write—good heavens, they do have mail service here, don’t they? They must.

Robert. That first dreadful cocktail party! There I was, unbeliev­ ably naive, scared to death; there was Robert, debonair, completely at ease. If my agent hadn’t insisted I go, we’d have never met. “It’s a good way to meet directors—for the theatre and for television, Laura.’’

And so I met Robert.

Oh, I was so naive back in those days. I don’t know what Robert ever saw in me. He’s taught me so much. What does Mother have against him? She met him once, and already she’s dismissed him as a “bad influence.’’ Why, if it hadn’t been for Robert, where would I be?

Back in our little home town, waiting tables, probably. He taught me how to dress, how to walk, everything! Grooming for that bright to­ morrow, as he calls it. Just when I’m really hitting the big time, in walks Mother, who whisks me to the doctor because I look “run down.”

Here I am. Joy! I wish he could have taken me to the station. Still, a television director is a busy man. Dear Robert. So perfect. A real man of the world.

At least this chair is comfortable. It’s a cozy room, this den. What charming books are at my disposal? The latest novel, no doubt. Oh, ho, here’s a classic example of the latest reading material: a book of famous quotations. Might as well leaf through it; I may find material for ex­ pression in my next play. Now here’s an interesting one: “What you are stands over you the while, and thunders so that I cannot hear what you say to the contrary.” How droll, as Robert would say.

Still, it’s not such a bad thought. Heaven knows there are plenty of fakers in this world—and about nine-tenths of them are in New York.

Fifty-two

Everybody trying to be something he’s not. Now whatever made me say that? I love the people in New York. Especially Robert’s crowd— my crowd, now. They’re colorful, exciting people, full of big plans and ambitions. And what’s wrong with ambition? As Robert says, it’s a tough world, and only the toughest conquer it. Robert. So much of my life centers around him. And I’m so glad. At first I couldn’t see why Robert had to criticize other directors to the producers, but now I do. They simply weren’t as capable as Robert, so they didn’t deserve the jobs, and that’s that.

Here’s a quotation from the Bible: “Just as ye sow, so shall ye reap.’’

Now that’s a good one. If you work hard to get to the top, you’ll get there. Only I suppose that isn’t all it means. I wonder if Robert will get his toes stepped on for stepping on so many others. Oh! This house!

That’s what it is, it’s this house that’s causing me to have such disloyal thoughts. 'Why am I criticizing Robert this way? He’s perfect—just ask him! I guess that’s disloyal, but it is funny. He is rather conceited.

But who has better reason to be? Only thirty years old, and already a big director.

I wonder why he never married? Too eager to get ahead, and a wife would tie him down. But now that he is so near the top, he can get married. Why did Mother have to ask if he had proposed yet? Of course not; you don’t do things like that anymore. You simply talk about it, and then you plan it, and then you’re married. Only we’ve never even talked about it. I did try to steer the conversation that way several times. His answer was always the same: “Laura, dear, you’re being naive.’’ That stopped me every time. I hated being thought of as unsophisticated. Oh, he’s shrewd, Robert is!

Wonder what time it is? Twelve^thirty already! Well, at least it’s a relief not to have to get up so early in the morning. I wonder what we’ll have for breakfast? Probably sausage, eggs, buttered toast, milk.

I won’t! I spent three years losing weight to improve my figure, and I won’t sacrifice all that just to please Aunt Hilda. Black coffee for me, and that’s all. I haven’t had eggs for breakfast for a long time. They might taste good. Well, better get to bed. Tomorrow is another day.

SUMMER'S LOVE Winifred Gehres, ’60

All summer long my love and I— In blissful solitude— Lived on and on in joy and love.

And dared the world to e’er intrude.

We ne’er would break our vows, we said.

We always would be true; As sure as evening moon doth shine Or morning bring the dew.

The Summer’s gone, and so’s my love.

And all the nights are long.

Now love which once was deep and true Lives only in a song.

Fifty-three

MY MEADOW Adelaide Weir, ’61

Although I have always lived just three miles from the bustling center of a large city, my most vivid and fond childhood memories center about “the woods.” Elliott is a hilly residential section, typical of Pittsburgh.

Steep, sloping, trec'Covered areas skirt its northwestern limits.

From the age of five or six, my playmates and I made many expedi' tions into the woods. Sometimes we magically became pioneers trudging west; other times we were American soldiers looking for “Germans” and “Japs” among the trees. But more often we went just for the adventure of walking on bare earth under shady, green trees, away from all civilized human life.

Every spring we made a weekly trip en masse to pick violets. We all came home with large bouquets for our mothers to place carefully in drinking glasses. In the fall we collected bright red, yellow, and orange leaves. I can still see four young boys, hands tucked in the pock' ets of their cotton poplin jackets, marching vigorously over the hilly paths and kicking up a storm of fallen leaves as Phyllis and I tried to keep up with them.

Phyllis was my best friend. Often we went for walks by ourselves, especially on long summer days. Chatting in the amusingly serious manner of little girls, we walked down the treedined street of white' frame and red brick houses till we reached the wooden bridge. Some' times we crossed it, then turned left down the gravel road that led toward the woods. Other times we took a short cut through Hurley’s field, directly behind the bridge, crossed the gravel road, and started up the path.

The path was winding and narrow. It gradually sloped uphill, twisting and turning through the trees. At one spot a fallen tree blocked the way. When we came to an even steeper slope, my short legs had to push hard against the hillside to keep my balance. Finally the path became more level. Down in the deep gulley below grew a dark bramble where we imagined that witches lived.

The woods were always cool and shady. The air smelled of rich brown earth and fresh green foliage. Breezes lazily ruffled the leaves, and the sun filtered through their thick screen to cast shimmering light spots on the somber ground. Robins and sparrows chirped in the trees, and an OC' casional redbird sat majestically on a high limb.

Our legs were growing tired by this time. Phyllis was a tall, thin, blonde, whose legs, slender and long even at the age of eight, gave her a considerable advantage over my short, chubby ones.

“Please. . . . Let’s stop at the meadow,” I invariably panted.

“Uh huh. We always do anyhow,” Phyllis would reply.

The thought of my meadow made me hurry a little more. The meadow was always the “turning'around” point of our walk, and it was, besides, a beautiful place belonging peculiarly to the two of us. It was our own special paradise and refuge, untouched by the perplexing out' side world.

We trudged still further along the level path. Ahead we saw a bright, sunny area; it was our “meadow,” a break in the trees about fifteen feet

Pifty-four

in diameter. Bright yellow-green grass carpeted the floor of the little field. All around grew a multitude of beautiful wild flowers—Queen Anne’s lace, daisies, dandelions, and small pink and white blossoms which we called “soap flowers” because one could actually use them to wash his hands. Bright purple and tiny yellow flowers dotted the grass; small wild rose vines trailed along the ground here and there.

The trees surrounding our meadow looked greener, and the birds chirped more gaily, so we thought. We always sat on the yellow-green carpet of grass for a while. If we had “serious” problems to discuss, we stayed longer. In the summer we sometimes even carried a picnic lunch.

The meadow was our own property and our own secret; we shared it with nobody.

As years went past, we seemed to have less time to visit our meadow.

Phyllis moved away when I was in the eighth grade, and the trips be­ came even more infrequent. During high school I never once saw the meadow. Finally, at the end of my senior year, I went to see my mead­ ow again. It was gone. Perhaps I took the wrong branch of the path, but I don’t think so. I did find a field; I think it was the same one. But the grass was faded, dark green, and the only wild flowers were a few scattered dandelions. Some trash lay about—tin cans, pieces of wood, remnants of cardboard boxes.

I stood there for a long time, staring blankly at the new scene. As I turned and walked slowly back over the old path, I glanced up the hill to my left. Peering over the top of the trees was a handsome, new brick house. Beyond it I glimpsed more houses, where once only trees had stood. A sinking, bewildered, sad feeling crept over me, as if some­ thing very dear to me was slipping away.

Three years later when I came home from college in the spring, even Hurley’s field—the big, old ballfield that Phyllis and I used to walk across —was gone. A contractor was busily erecting new houses on it.

NEW MOON Adelaide Weir, ’60

Third Prize (tie), ^uiz and Suill Poety A thin crescent pinned in the smoky-black sky— Luminous gold, pale and shining Through the bare, black sinewy arms of trees, Liquid yellow light— Paints twisted shadows On patches of old snow.

Sliver of newness, harbinger of spring.

Ages of man see you rise and wane, Watch through tired eyes For buds, blossoms, and grass Of new Spring, Of new Life.

Fifty-five

THE PUPPET Paulette Loop, '60

The puppet lifelessly lies, Patiently waiting

For the dexterous hand.

What! No show tonight?

A mangled finger has the master.

As I passed the puppet, I saw a sardonic smile On the white wooden face.

And the painted lips parted To murmur “Wish it had been His whole hand!”

I'M JUST NOT THE HANDYMAN TYPE Kaye Koontz, ’62

Did you know that you can’t tear steel wool— With your bare hands?

Oh, you don’t really think that I ■ ■ • Well, yes, as a matter of fact, I did.

Yes and did you know that with a magnetic tack hammer— You have to be careful where you pound?

Well, I mean, anyone can pound a tack into his thumb.

No? Not just anyone? Well . . .

Oh, but did you know that paint has to be stirred— At least once an hour?

Well, we’ve got the only multicolor room around.

What Pm really trying to say is . . .

Is there a man in the house?

EARLY MORNING Karen Kullmann, ’63

Soft light and gentle sounds Bring early morning once again.

The city has not yet opened her eyes To the light of a new and glorious day.

Soon, soon the bustle and clamor of a city awake Will dispel the quiet of the hour— But, until then, it is early morning— Calm, peaceful. Waiting.

Fifty-six

NEW YORK - THE TWO FACED CITY Nancy Staats, '63

Honorable Mention—Freshman Prose New York City is like a young boy’s first love. It sparkles. It glitters.

It’s exciting. He is so overwhelmed by her that he fails to look deeper to discover her faults and shortcomings. Or, he may even excuse her weak' nesses by pretending not to see them. There are two sides to New York City and I know them both well.

The side most commonly seen by visitors is the bright and glamorous side. Broadway! Times Square! I can see it all now. Even though evening has descended, the streets are illuminated. Catchy signs and neon lights dazzle the eye. The small night clubs are smoky and crowded. Jazz blares forth from a microphone. Broadway is also the theater district. Actors and actresses scurry in stage doors. It’s almost curtain time! Up and down the streets movie marquees flash—the Roxy, Capital, Criterion, Radio City.

People jam the sidewalks and streets. Beautiful women and handsome men parade in the latest styles. There is color, color everywhere—in store windows, on the flashing signs, on the cars whizzing past.

During the day the great clothing industries are turning out thousands upon thousands of new'Style suits, dresses and coats. The City scowls at the world and dares anyone to defy her.

Yes, this is a part of the New York I know. But this is just the sur' face. There is another side, a side where there isn’t much laughter or gayety.

I think New York City is the only place in the world where you can live next door to your neighbor for twenty-five years and not know his name. I’ve known this to happen time and time again. People in New York are not as friendly as those in other parts of the country. They’re skepti­ cal and are apt to be suspicious. New York is the City of Loneliness— over eight million people in the city and most have only a few friends.

To really get a good idea of poverty and despair, visit Harlem or the Bowery. Here you can see for yourself people whose lives are so decadent and purposeless that they would sell their souls for a fifteen-cent beer or a shot of whiskey. Here also in the slums and tenements occur every even­ ing hundreds of robberies and muggings. Children of eight or ten gamble in the streets until late at night.

This is the other side of the City that I know. But however it may be, I love New York for what it is—mighty, powerful and strong. This is my home.

FIRST GRADE WONDER Mary Cay Wells, ’47

How amazing it is What a day spent at books Can do to the looks of a child Who started out tubbed.

Combed, curled, washed, and scrubbed.

To return, a dirt store-house, self-styled.

Fifty-seven

TO A MEXICAN FIRE OPAl: Roger Caldwell, ’58

Plain, brown Opal, Your hidden fire Speaks of man.

Your coat of tan Gives no hint That underneath Lies a glint Of fiery breath.

But movement brings A flash that sings Of inner life.

The constant strife Between body and soul Finds no confession In this expression Of united whole.

The plain vessel.

That harbors the essence Of your flaming presence, Serves its duty To be a sessile Carrier of beauty.

MEMO: SAY GOODBYE Vandwilla Hackman, ’60

“Memo: Say goodbye to Van.’’ I heard the voice up front say it.

I was Van and I felt a red tingle at my temples.

“Memo: Say goodbye,’’ echoed my mind.

I knew I must But I couldn’t.

“Does it really feel different?”

Different?

Like floating in a cloud!

But clouds aren’t very stable and I felt dizzy.

College was nearly over for me.

It couldn’t be real!

But here I was stepping into a new world, A strange new world.

Alone!

“Memo: Say goodbye.”

Look ahead.

Away from friendly faces.

Away from helping hands.

With a lump in the throat And a hot happy face.

Goodbye.

fty-eight

LIFE IS . . .

William Johnson, ’63

Life is a wonderful thing.

“Is it worth living?’’ you ask.

Life is for the working man.

Is it too hard a task?

Life is hard, life is dull.

Is it a thing to ponder?

Life is sweet, life is dear.

Is it for us to wonder?

Life is what you are living.

Is this attempt your best?

Life lasts until death.

Is it then you get your rest?

Life is more than man can say.

Is it for us to tell?

Life can be forever.

Is yours going well?

Life is with us all the way.

Is it for us to laud?

Life is so many things That all add up to God.

NEWS FOR HERACLITUS Rolfe Korsborn, ’56

The goldfish hang clear in the pool as though in air Like a flame that is the will of a flame That burns with more strange sweetness For the sheer, more than air clear, ply of the water.

All that you seem is not substance intractable.

But the idea of you. And when you move.

You move as a hand moves behind gauze film.

Not as veiling, but as the hand lends form to the fabric.

Neither water nor trembling flame Nor any other thing that flows, flows with such care As you moving without pressure behind time’s fabric.

Thine eye is a bird With blue shoulder feathers.

Thy face, the face Of Botticelli’s Venus.

Thy body, body of Thetis, Delicate as eyelid.

And now more clearly for every line and grace.

Here roughly traced with borrowed accent and allusion.

Bright Lady! Burn through my poor heart’s rags!

Fifty-nine

REVENGE Carolyn Smith, '62

Why do we act the way we often do, As we pour out the vials of wrath to him For some slight phrase misunderstood; construe And build a bitter memory within?

This inner mutiny explodes. Till then.

The masked subconscious self has dug the deep.

It can’t survive without a word again To him whose words our 'venging wrath did reap.

Our one reward, to cut the wound so deep That he will not forget his humbleness, While we stand by and rationalize, not weep.

For having hurt someone so dear to us.

To prove his preordained defeat, we seek.

It is not he, but we ourselves, the weak.

THE TELEPHONE Leslie Marsh, ’62

You messenger of good and bad You have the calm I wish I had!

You give no hint of what you bring Through your emotion-absent ring.

It does not matter for your part.

That you might ease an anxious heart.

Nor one small tear would you display At sorry news you might convey.

The thrilling shrilling of the bell So easily my fears foretell, Yet there you sit so meagerly And here I watch you eagerly.

While to the fervent hope I cling That any second you will ring.

SO LIFE'S EXPERIENCES Pat Speer Lobrino, ’59

Sun burned daffodils Topple over each other Making their own bier Perfumed With both the loveliness of flowers And the patient stench of death.

Sixty

RETROSPECT

This spring, thinking over the Quiz and Quill activities of 1959'1960, the faculty sponsor finds himself pondering as many times before the continuing enrichment that the Club’s pledge of membership helps bring, year after year, into the creative efforts of many individuals and into the general life of Otterbein College.

“To attend meetings . . . read my own creative writing . . . share in the regular work of the Club including the labor of preparing and publishing the ^uiz and ^uill literary annual . . . stimulate in every way possible, both as a student and later as an alumnus, literary effort and appreciation in Otterbein College ... at some future time . . . make a monetary contribution to the Quiz and Quill endowment fund ...”

These are the basic obligations of the pledge.

And now, on May Day, here again is the ^uiz and ^uill spring an' nual providing abundant evidence that the campus members have had another pleasant and successful year in keeping faith. There have been other evidences too:' Beginning in October, for instance, the Club sponsored and managed “I’ve Been Reading,” a fifteen'minute book review program over campus F'M station WOBN. Both students and faculty shared in this new discussion series.

Then, on April 20, for an open meeting, the Club presented Mr. Kenneth E. Zimmerman of Bexley in his lecture, “At Home with Carl Sandburg.” Mr. and Mrs. Zimmerman, long friends of the Sandburgs, visit at the poet’s home in North Carolina each summer, and their home is Mr. Sandburg’s headquarters when he is speaking in Ohio.

Also the Club has sponsored or cooperated with the English Depart' ment in managing the usual group of literary contests, whose major pro' ducts appear in the pages here. A total of 113 manuscripts was sub' mitted this year.

Quiz and Quill alumni, as always, continue to give generously to the support of literary efforts by their actives on the campus. The En' dowment Fund, to which all members are pledged to contribute at some time in their lives, had reached $4,945.50 as of June 30, 1959. Interest from the fund helps finance the prize contests, bring outside speakers from time to time, and assist in publication.

One very special alumni gift came this year in the establishment of the Kathleen White Dimke Essay Contest. Mrs. Dimke, Quiz and Quill member of the class of 1924, died in Dayton on July 11, 1959. Mr. T. E. Dimke, her husband, together with a group of friends, has endowed this very generous annual essay award in her memory. Because of their length, of course, these prize compositions cannot all be published in the annual. The stimulus, however, that this contest will bring to efforts in the more extended and substantial brackets of prose composition should be increasingly valuable through the years.

Alumni and actives look forward to the annual Strawberry Breakfast Saturday morning, June 4, at 8:00 in Cochran Dining Hall.

Robert Price

Sixty-one

TABLE OF CONTENTS A Trial, Earl J^ewberg................................................. ........

Infinity, John Soliday .

■ .........................................

A Night on Dufferin Terrace, Bruce Flac\ . . . .

The Return, Robert Werner.........................................

The Old Oak Speaks, Alice Sanders Reed . . .

■ Time to Rest, John Soliday.................................................

Hark! The Gas Man Cometh, Carl R. Kropf .

The Tower, Susan Beatty.................................................

Contemplation on People, Phyllis Fraley In Late December, Bruce Flac\.................................

Beatitude, Sylvia Vance .. ■ ■ • • Never-Never Land, Carl Kropf • ■ . .

Of the Modest McIntosh, Vernon Vogel .

Love Is . . ., Sarah Rose S\aates.................................

Selections from Holiday Sonnets, George Stump An Unforgettable Customer, Bev Easterday Contentment, Kaye Koontz.........................................

Old Saum, Philip O. Deever.........................................

A Song of This and That, Rolje Korsborn .

Milk of Human Kindness, Rita Zimmerman The Wind Game, Susan Beatty.................................

The Day I Grew Up, Alfonzo Washington Song, Ruth Mugridge . . . ....

Greater Dw Angeles, Phyllis Royer ....

War, Marjorie Goddard.........................................

Before the Finals, Lloyd Bailor.................................

Anticipation, Gloria Corbett.................................

Anticipation of the Cross, Judith Stone Teacher, Adelaide Weir.........................................

Night, John Soliday.................................................

Dear Poet. Lavelle Rosselot.........................................

I Love to Wade a Mountain Stream, David L. Cameron Tale of a Trial, Dallas Taylor.................................

And in Every Man, Roger Caldwell . .

• • The Visitor, Euretta Dixon .

Grumio Thou Art, John Soliday . .

■ • The Catch, Francis Bach.........................................

A Cinquain, Rolfe Korsborn .

■ ■ ■ ^ Blow. Wind, Blow!, Judith Stewart . . . '• The Hole, John Payton.................................................

Percussion, Susan Beatty.........................................

Song to Soap, John Soliday.........................................

Birthday, David Schar.................................................

The Organization Complex, Bev Easterday .

Ode to Rhetoric, Bev Easterday.................................

Sonnet, Judith Stone.................................................

Mv Advice to a Bride. Pat Speer Lobrino .

A Darkened Horizon, Rita Zimmerman Shell Song, Rolfe Korsborn.........................................

Boy Friend, John Soliday.........................................

3 3 4 4 5 6

7 8

9 10 10 11 11

13 14 15

16 17 18

19

Zl 22

22 23 24 26 26 27 27 29 30 30 31 33 33 33 34 34 35 35 42 42 44 44 45 46 46 47 48 49

TABLE OF CONTENTS You’ll Never Get Past Barstow, Dallas Taylor.................................50 Dedicated to All Camp Counselors, Peg English...................................... 51 Tomorrow Is Another Day, Kaye Koontz.............................................. 52 Summer’s Love, Winifred Gehres...................................................... 53 My Meadow, Adelaide Weir...............................................................54 New Moon, Adelaide Weir.......................................................................55 The Puppet, Paulette Loop.......................................................................56 I’m Just Not the Handyman Type, Kaye Koontz .... 56 Early Morning, Karen Kullmann...............................................................56 New York—The Two-Faced City, 7\[ancy Stoats . . . .57 First Grade Wonder, Mary Cay Wells.............................................. 57 To a Mexican Fire Opal, Roger Caldwell . . .... .58 Memo: Say Goodbye, Vandwilla Hackman......................................58 Life Is, William Johnson................................. ........ . . .59 News for Heraclitus, Rolfe Korsborn........................................ .59 Revenge, Carolyn Smith.......................................................................60 The Telephone, Leslie Marsh.............................................................. 60 So Life’s Experiences, Pat Speer Lobrino . . . ... 60 Retrospect...........................................................................................61